


The Gold

by flat_goo



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Morgan Lives, Dutch van der linde has BPD, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Canon, Resurrection, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Relationships, dutch is kind of a piece of shit, im not a writer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flat_goo/pseuds/flat_goo
Summary: (ON HIATUS)Arthur Morgan remembers dying. He remembers his last breath, the moment he died, and more than anything he remembers Dutch leaving him there.So why isn't he dead?Title from "The Gold" by Manchester Orchestra
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 114
Kudos: 216





	1. (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really a writer, I just wanted to write about the boys. Bare with me

It’s dark.

Black as an abyss.

His ears are ringing.

He wonders if this is his Hell. He doesn’t mind as long as the ones he cares about are safe.

But he’s not in Hell, he can tell that much from the splintered wood under his fingertips. The smell of moist dirt. The fact that he can  **breathe** .

His finger twitches and he relearns how to move. It’s a battle, like his body has completely forgotten how to function. Like his nerves have been dormant for far too long. Nonetheless, he is able to feel around him.

The wood encases him from all sides.

It’s a casket. He’s been buried.

He knows he wasn’t buried alive. He remembers his last breath, the moment he died, and above all, seared into his mind: Dutch walking away. 

He was left to die on that rock and that he did. 

He emerges from the ground sweating something fierce with bleeding broken nails and splinters under his skin. His ears are still ringing. There are flowers in the dirt by his feet, dead and wilted like he should be.

The headstone reads  _ “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness” _ and his name.

**Arthur Morgan.**

-

His body is starting to give out. Not from the tuberculosis (which he isn’t even sure he has anymore because he can **breathe** ), but from the distance he has walked since getting out of that god forsaken grave. The white shirt he was laid to rest in is covered in dirt and soaked in sweat. His vision is starting to swim and the next thing he knows, he’s panting on the ground. He’s been walking this road for hours and he can’t seem to find a town or even a small house. His head is pounding from the heat and his eyes can’t seem to stay open.

He sees a stag, perched on a rock and bathed in sunshine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy

Everything feels like it’s in slow motion. There are distant voices. The sound of a horse’s hooves hitting dirt. He blacks out again.

When he finally wakes, he feels drowsy. This time he doesn’t feel wood underneath him. Instead he feels ratty cotton sheets and bandages wrapped around his hands. When he opens his eyes he notices a man probably ten years his senior sitting at a desk writing and a woman with honey-colored hair folding clothes near the fireplace. When he moves to sit up, the man’s eyes follow him. The woman sets down the overshirt she was folding and moves to him. She takes the glass of water from the table next to him and gingerly lifts it to his lips. He drinks greedily with desperation until there is no water left.

The man speaks up once the glass has been returned to the bedside table, “You were severely exhausted. You were lucky we happened to be passing by.” His eyes are trained on the page in front of him once again.

Arthur tries to reply but his voice is raspy from disuse, “Thank-,” he clears his throat, “Thank you.” The man nods in reply.

Arthur doesn’t know how long he’s been ‘dead’. Hell, he doesn’t even know how he’s alive. He  **remembers** dying. He remembers it like it was yesterday.

“What year is it?” Arthur rasps.

The woman looks confused for a moment before she replies,”It’s 1910, mister. Honey, I think he may have hit his head when he fell.” She looks towards her husband.

1910.

It’s been ten years.

**Ten years.**

Arthur pushes himself up and off the bed, ignoring the concerned voices behind him as he heads towards the door. 

He walks until he sees a signpost that reads ‘Valentine’ and then walks some more.

He finds himself thinking of Dutch. He knows he shouldn’t, the man left him for dead, but.. All them years together still makes Arthur long for him.

Dutch who didn’t care when he was sick. Dutch who kept walking when Arthur exclaimed that he needed help at Fort Wallace. Dutch who didn’t seem to care when Eagle Flies died. 

Dutch has wronged Arthur in so many ways. 

When they were all in Saint Denis and Dutch saw that Angelo Bronte was _ interested _ in Arthur he had used it to his advantage. He’d told Arthur to go to Bronte’s. That it was a simple job and that he would get the details from Bronte when he got there. Instead, the man had offered him a drink and of course because Arthur has a drinking problem, he accepted it. The next thing he knew Bronte was slicking his cock with vaseline and pressing a drugged Arthur into the mattress, leaving bruises on his hips and blood trickling down his legs. Money in hand, he vomited the moment he got back to his horse. 

Dutch knew about it too. He had agreed to it. When Arthur returned to Shady Belle he marched his sore body up to Dutch’s room. 

‘How’d it go?’ Dutch had asked nonchalantly.

Arthur looked at him with disgust before throwing the money clip at him.

Dutch dodged it effortlessly and gave Arthur a look like he was dealing with a spoiled child.

‘C’mon, Arthur. Grow up,’ he sighed. ‘Do you think it’s different because you’re a man? Do you see how the girls throw themselves at men just for a few dollars or even _ less _ ?’ he walked up to Arthur and caressed his cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

‘You just happen to be the prettiest boy in our bunch, so if someone like Bronte  _ wants you,”  _ He paused, a certain darkness passing through his eyes, “They’re gonna have you.”

-

Arthur arrived at Valentine near sundown. It was a long walk and he was exhausted, but he needed to get to the stables. When they were staying at Horseshoe Overlook Arthur had stabled a horse here, however he doubted that after ten years they would still have him. He really did hope that his horse was there because it's not like he could buy one. Would’ve been mighty useful if they had buried him with some cash.

Something about the town didn’t seem right to Arthur. He didn’t know what was wrong, it was just a gut feeling. 

And then he heard it: a gunshot. Then several gunshots.

The people on the streets quickly scattered and Arthur reached for the holster on his hip- except there was no holster and more importantly no gun.

‘Fuck,’ he cursed under his breath and quickly ran to find cover. He settled behind a large crate near the door of the general store. More gunshots rang out. They were getting closer.

Eventually the shooters rounded the corner and Arthur’s eyes honed in on one in particular. Dark curly hair with a bit of grey slicked back, a white shirt with a black vest, but now with a full beard also peppered with grey.

Dutch.

Arthur’s heart rate increased. 

He was pretty sure that if Dutch found out he was here the man would surely kill him. That is if the last few encounters he had with him were anything to go by. 

“Search all the stores. Take anything you see fit,” he heard Dutch say to his group. Arthur’s eyes widened and he quickly ducked into the alley between the two stores, trying to get his breathing under control. From the alley he could see the men entering the numerous shops. He could hear the clattering of objects as they rummaged through the stores next to him. It was time to get the fuck out of there.

He should’ve been paying more attention as he got up to leave the alley.

He felt the cold tip of a revolver press against the back of his head and heard the unmistakable sound of the hammer being pulled back. Arthur slowly raised his hands in surrender.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He heard in that familiar, low drawl.

Arthur had just recently come back from the dead and now it seemed he was going back again.

“Turn around, now.” Dutch demanded.

Arthur reasons that Dutch can’t possibly know it’s him. He was there when Arthur died, the man couldn’t possibly think that he could still be alive. At this point Arthur has two choices: Either he doesn’t turn around and gets shot or he turns around and gets shot or worse. 

He supposes he took too long to decide because there’s a hand gripping his shoulder and he's quickly jerked so that he is facing Dutch Van Der Linde. The look on the man’s face is one of disbelief before it fades into something darker.

Arthur notices that the gun is lowered and takes that as his chance to run. He sprints around the corner, a shot ringing out after him.

“Don’t let him get away! And for god’s sake don’t let him find a gun!” Dutch called out and Arthur internally panicked.

There was a small part of him that was pleased that Dutch was still confident in his abilities because Arthur sure wasn’t. It had been ten years, after all. 

“I want him alive!”

Arthur ran like his life depended on it. He ran into the nearby trees, hoping he could throw them off. He could hear shots ringing out behind him and he was just barely moving in time to dodge the bullets’ paths. His body was still weak from disuse and his steps were uncoordinated, causing him to falter a few times.

The shots stopped and he thought that he was finally in the clear until he heard the neigh of a horse and hoofbeats against the dirt. 

A single shot rang out and Arthur _ felt it.  _

His hand gripped his shoulder and he let out a choked sound. Glancing behind him, he saw dutch on his white horse with his revolver in hand. Fuck.

Arthur was bleeding a lot for a dead man. He was starting to get dizzy and his steps became even more uncoordinated than before. He could still hear Dutch behind him but he wasn’t shooting. It’s like he was waiting for Arthur to fall. His legs felt like jelly and his vision was blurring. His foot caught on a rock causing him to fall hard onto the unforgiving ground of the forest. He groaned, still holding his aching, bleeding shoulder.

The last thing he saw was Dutch frowning over him before grabbing the collar of his shirt.

This time he sees light peeking through the trees of a forest as the stag is chased by the wolf.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof here's another one

Arthur woke up in pain. Sure he'd had worse, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt like a bitch. His breathing was ragged, harsh breaths in and harsh breaths out. His shoulder was throbbing.

He opened his eyes, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision. It was to no avail as the corners remained blurry, like his eyes couldn't focus.

His head moves sluggishly to glance down at his shoulder. His shirt is still blood soaked with no bandages over the wound. It also was the same place he was shot by an O'Driscoll, that might explain why it was hurting so damn bad. A bullet through scar tissue didn't sound too good. He wouldn't die from the blood loss but he was definitely more vulnerable when it came to infection. Of course Dutch wouldn't care either way. 

Arthur was tied to a chair and was slightly grateful that he wasn't hanging from the ceiling this time. 

Arthur neglected to notice the man next to him.

"What's your name?" Dutch asked from beside him, leaning up against a table.

Should he lie? Give Dutch a false name so that he might make it out of here alive? Arthur might look different after his time in the ground. When he was a kid they used to say that your hair keeps growing even when you're dead, but after ten years Arthur would have hair down to his knees and he assumes he would notice if his hair was that long, even without a mirror. Judging by the fact that he was fucking dead and came back to life, Arthur is going to assume he looks the exact same as how he died. Well, without the bruises and swollen eyelids. So he decides to go on the offensive.

"Dutch, you fucking idiot," he snarled.

It was a bad idea.

Fingers dug into his wound, tearing it open more before it even had the chance to heal. Arthur cried out in pain, gritting his teeth while his vision went in and out.

"What. Is. Your. Fucking. Name?" The voice growled, fingers still penetrating his wound.

Arthur was taking deep breaths and trying to ignore the pain. His face was pinched and there was sweat on his brow.

"I'm not gonna ask again, boy," he threatened, somehow digging them in deeper, causing even more blood to leak from the bullet wound.

"ARTHUR!" He yelled, "My fucking name is Arthur!" His voice cracked from the unrelenting pain. The pain lessened as Dutch's hand left his body.

"No," Dutch said softly.

Arthur looked up with pained eyes, "I don't know what you want me to tell you, Dutch."

"I was there. I watched Arthur Morgan die!" He shouted, a terrifying look on his face.

"Yeah and I remember dying! I remember  _ you _ leaving me there!" Arthur shot back.

Before Arthur could even blink, he felt the impact of cold rings on his cheek and burning fire left in its wake. His head snapped to the side.

It'd been a while since Dutch had backhanded him.

Yep. Still hurts.

The last time he'd had the pleasure of being backhanded by Dutch was when they were in Guarma and Arthur had criticised him for killing that old lady. He could hear the slap echo off of the stone walls of the cave. Before that it was after the Bronte situation and Arthur was still fuming. After Dutch had admitted to being okay with whoring Arthur out to every rich man that fancied him. He had slapped Dutch's hand away from his face and in return he had gotten a smack across his face and a couple broken ribs.

Arthur was beginning to feel faint. 

"Dutch," he breathed, "I wasn't in Valentine looking for you or anythin' like that.. So just let me go and you can get on with.. whatever you were doing."

Dutch looked down at the man who was steadily getting paler. He certainly looked like Arthur.

"How are you still alive?" 

Arthur opened his tired eyes, "Hell if I know.. woke up in a casket.. dug my way out." He was breathing heavily.

Dutch glanced at the man's tied hands that were dressed in blood spotted bandages. There were probably splinters littering every finger. The amount of blood on the shirt was not a good sign, either.

Dutch brought his hand to his hip, reaching for his knife and not missing the way Arthur tensed up. He brought the knife close to the ropes before glancing up at Arthur, "If you even  _ try  _ to run off, I will shoot you and this time it won't be in the shoulder. Am I clear?"

Arthur looked like he could barely walk let alone run. Half lidded azure eyes met Dutch's own, "Crystal."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You betrayed the gang and destroyed everything we stood for!  
> Dutch: surprised Pikachu face

Arthur wished he had stayed dead. It's not that he necessarily  _ wanted _ to die, but that he had made peace with it. As Charles said, he was lucky to know when he would die, to be able to make amends before his time came. And make amends he did. He'd been jealous of John for having something that he could never have. A family of his own. So he safely got John and his family away.

Once upon a time, Hosea and Dutch were his family. That was before it all went sour. Before Dutch had started changing, transforming into someone Arthur couldn't even recognize. 

They used to fool around when they were young, probably out of loneliness or convenience. It's been so long but Arthur can still remember. He remembers how gentle Dutch was and how the man knew every inch of his body back then. He used to kiss down Arthur's neck, taking his time and making sure that Arthur had enjoyed it. The last time they fucked was after Molly and Dutch had been fighting. Dutch had called him over to 'talk' which ended up with Dutch's arm snaking around Arthur's waist and pulling him close. Clearly propositioning him. Arthur had just been out all day on random jobs and he was tired as all Hell. He'd told Dutch just that and the look on the man's face was dark, darker than he'd ever witnessed. He'd been pulled into the tent and tossed onto the bed.

Dutch fucked him with a hand on his throat, Arthur clawing at it as he struggled to breathe through the vice grip and the pain of being split open on Dutch's cock. No prep, no lube. It was painful, his lungs burning in his chest and Dutch only eased his grip when he thought Arthur was going to pass out. It was worse than with Bronte. Not only because of the level of pain he'd experienced but because the person inflicting that upon him was someone he cared for and even looked up to.

Arthur didn't want to think about it anymore.

-

"You haven't coughed at all since we got here," Dutch spoke, watching Arthur drink the water he had given him after he finished bandaging his shoulder.

Arthur lowered the glass from his lips and shifted his eyes towards the dark haired man. Arthur huffed a cynical laugh, "Of course, you only care after it killed me."

"I had a lot on my mind, son. Trying to get us back on track, to get us out of there. You should be  _ grateful _ ," he said, making sure his last words cut deep.

Arthur's brow furrowed, "Grateful for what, Dutch? Letting Micah manipulate you? Not listening to me even as I was fucking dying?" Arthur was seething.

"Watch your tone, boy. You'd be nothing without me. I picked you up off the street and I gave you a home." Dutch's voice was low and Arthur knew exactly how hat he was doing. Guilting him, making Arthur think that he owes him the world.

"And look where that got me," Arthur calmed a bit and looked down to the moth-eaten sheets of the bed, still as a statue. "I might have had tuberculosis, Dutch, but you're the one who killed me."

It was strange seeing Arthur in front of him again for the first time in 10 years. 

The image of Arthur, bloody and broken and gasping for breath was forever seared into his mind. It was the moment that Dutch realised he was  _ wrong  _ and that Arthur was the only one capable of making him see that. He had betrayed the gang, their ideas and everything they stood for. Dutch had lost sight of himself. His first son, his first recruit, who he had hurt and taken advantage of in so many ways was dying at his feet. Dutch was  _ wrong _ . 

"Don't you think I know that?" Dutch shouted before sighing and getting up from his chair. He glanced back at Arthur just in time to see the man turn onto his uninjured shoulder his body shaking from silent sobs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to sleep now rip

Somehow, even in the small abandoned cabin they still managed to avoid each other. No words were spoken since their argument that took place three days ago. The argument that had drawn out even more of Arthur's discontent with being alive again. The argument that left Arthur stifling sobs and trying his best to make sure that Dutch didn't hear a thing. That man didn't deserve anything from him, least of all his vulnerability.

Sometimes Arthur would glance up from his journal and he'd catch Dutch looking at him. He could tell that the gears in the man's head were turning, that he was trying to devise a _'plan'_ \- for what he didn't know. Arthur had had enough of his plans for a lifetime. He would get up from the bed he'd been lounging on and retreat outside, journal in hand. Just like he was currently doing.

The wooden wall of the cabin was definitely not the most comfortable feeling, but it beat the tense atmosphere of the cabin by a landslide. The sky outside was golden, just bordering on sundown and Arthur had taken to sketching the area around him almost every day. He sighed, letting his head roll back onto the wood and staring up at the sky.

He missed Hosea. 

The one thing he was looking forward to when he died was seeing all of his fallen brothers one last time. Instead his afterlife was being stuck in some kind of dreamless sleep in a casket for roughly ten years. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice the figure leaning up against the door frame next to him.

"You haven't changed at all, you know that?" Dutch's voice startled him as he broke the silence they had maintained over the past few days.

Arthur glanced over at him, "what's that s'posed to mean?"

Dutch studied his face for a moment and Arthur felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. "You look the same as you did that night, nothing's changed at all. Not your hair, your eyes, nothing." 

Upon receiving Arthur's questioning look, it clicked for Dutch.

"You haven't seen yourself yet?" He questioned.

"Haven't found a mirror yet."

Dutch let a fond look pass over his features. Any doubt he had that this wasn't Arthur was gone now. Arthur had never really cared for his appearance. Hell, the man only cut his beard down because he found it 'annoying' when it got too long. Dutch turned back into the cabin and grabbed the mirror from his shave kit, re-emerging moments later.

He handed the mirror to the man on the ground who easily took it. 

Arthur stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was still just barely past his shoulders as it had been. He had neglected cutting it once he got to Saint Denis, there were more important things on the line than a haircut. Not to mention after he was diagnosed he just didn't care. He was going to die anyway, so he just didn't see the point anymore. He pulled a strand between two fingers.

Dutch must have noticed his focus on his hair because he chimed in, "You shouldn't cut it again."

Arthur gave him a questioning look, "Why not?"

Dutch found himself at a loss for a moment, "You just.. you look nice with longer hair." The time that he had brushed a stray lock of hair behind Arthur's ear, rubbed the pad of his thumb over the bruise on his cheekbone played in his mind. The circumstances weren't good and the words he said to Arthur that night are always going to be something he regrets. He had a lot of regrets concerning Arthur once he had finally gotten his head on straight.

Arthur narrowed his eyes before sighing and pushing past Dutch and returning into the cabin, the mirror abandoned on the ground.

-

"Where's the nearest town?" Arthur asked, snapping Dutch out of his reading.

Dutch hesitated. Was Arthur fixing to leave him? Find the nearest town and ride off and never come back? It'd be like losing him again.

"Why?" He asked.

"Tired of wearing your fucking clothes, that's why," Arthur deadpanned, "I also need a drink or ten."

Relief washed over Dutch, but he still wasn't sure about it. He let out a small chuckle, "And just where were you planning to get the money for that?"

Arthur glanced to the side, not meeting Dutch's eyes, "Well, it's been a while but I was a pretty decent thief. I figure I can get the money off someone."

Dutch smiled fondly, Arthur was a good thief back in the day.

"The nearest town is Rhodes, but it's quite a long ride on horseback let alone walking."

"You got another horse?" Arthur asked, already knowing the answer. No one except Dutch could ride the Count.

"Sure don't, Arthur," Dutch smiled, " I do, however, have money. Let's get going."

Arthur scowled before following Dutch out of the cabin.

Dutch had mounted the Count and held out a hand to Arthur like he was a lady and couldn't mount a horse on his own. Suffice to say, Arthur declined and mounted the horse himself. As soon as he was on, Dutch had taken Arthur's hands in his and placed them around his waist. As much as Arthur hated having to touch the man who abandoned and betrayed him, he knew that the horse would be a little rambunctious with someone who wasn't Dutch riding along with them. So Arthur stomached it for the time being.

The ride to Rhodes was long, just as Dutch had said. Arthur immediately dismounted as soon as they arrived, leaving Dutch to hitch the Count as Arthur walked into the general store.

The clerk greeted him when he entered and Arthur gave an awkward nod in response before browsing the catalog at the counter. He ended up picking out a dark grey button up shirt with some dark pants. He decided against the boots since he quite liked the ones he stole from Dutch. He also grabbed some black riding gloves, suspenders, and another of the same shirt but white. 

He headed over to the fitting room in the corner, dragging the curtain closed behind him. Changing clothes was a little difficult because his shoulder was still sore but he was still surprised with how fast it had healed. It was strange. 

When he was younger, _(when Hosea was still alive. When they were all still alive)_ a job involving a drunk man and a poker game had gone wrong. Long story short, Arthur got shot. In the leg. And it hurt like hell. However, it had taken much longer to heal, but maybe there's a difference between getting shot in the leg and getting shot in the shoulder? Arthur doesn't know, he's not a fuckin' doctor.

When he's finally dressed he looks in the mirror mounted on the wall. His eyes catch on his face and he _hates_ how young he looks compared to Dutch. He hates that his body is how it was when he died. When he couldn't eat without coughing so hard that he just couldn't keep it down. He wasn't scrawny or anything, just a lot leaner than he was before Thomas Downes coughed on him.

He leaves the fitting room and Dutch is there waiting for him. The man smiles as he looks Arthur up and down before sliding the clerk a couple bills. 

When they return to the cabin, Dutch approaches him. He sits on the edge of the bed, allowing Arthur enough space as he holds out two boxes stacked on top of each other. Arthur furrows his brow as he takes the boxes from Dutch's calloused hands. Opening the first one he finds a new gun belt, similar to his old one but not weathered with age. He knows what will be in the other box.

He opens it and sees a brand new cattleman revolver.

There was a time in his life where he would kill for Dutch with no questions asked. A time where all Dutch had to do was point and Arthur would paint the town red. Things are different now.

Very different.

He's not Dutch's guard dog anymore. Arthur's hands are now his own. 

_Fuck_ , he needs a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's what the boys look like nowadays
> 
> https://imgur.com/gallery/roE7zSG
> 
> https://imgur.com/gallery/71G748n
> 
> https://imgur.com/gallery/qMx5BO8


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting real also I'm obsessed with long haired Arthur
> 
> I have pictures of what Arthur and Dutch look like now in the end notes of last chapter of anyone's interested

Arthur opens his tired eyes to Dutch above him, hands tight on his shoulders and shaking him awake. The man has blood smeared on his temple and even more leaking in thin streams of red from what Arthur can only assume is a bullet graze on his upper arm.

"Was' goin' on?" Arthur slurs, everything still hazey and bright from sleep and his brain doesn't seem to be functioning well enough yet for his mouth to keep up with his mind. Dutch is looking a bit rough. A roughness Arthur hasn't seen since he was young and it was just him, Dutch and Hosea. Before Dutch was replaced by the wholly arrogant version of himself that destroyed the only family he ever knew.

"Something happened in town. Pack your things, we need to get moving," Dutch said with urgency, messily throwing all of his things into a large bag.

Arthur didn't have much so he quickly packed his clothes, gun and journal. He met with Dutch near the horse, stowing his bag next to the other man's before mounting the horse behind him. Curiosity picked his brain as he tried to imagine what had happened in town.

He knows that Dutch has not given up the outlaw life, that much was clear to Arthur based on their initial meeting. It was also clear that he had put together a gang of sorts judging by the men with him when he was robbing Valentine. Arthur didn't know how to feel about that.

"So.. are ya gonna tell me what happened?" Arthur asked as they rode, brushing his hair behind his ears with an annoyed look when stray locks were pushed into his face by the breeze.

"Well," Dutch sighed like he was exhausted just speaking about it, "I was getting some supplies from the general store and as I was leaving.. I was recognized by some drunken fool who thought himself wise enough to start yelling out his suspicions. There just so happened to be a sheriff nearby."

"From the shit that happened ten years ago?" He frowned.

"Not exactly," he says, "about a year ago, I put together a small gang and we ran a heist on the bank. We tried to do something similar in Valentine but.. I found you."

The man spoke his last words as if it was a relief that he had found Arthur, but the younger man didn't see it that way at all. He didn't even know why he was still with Dutch. He was the man who had ripped off pieces of Arthur's soul time and time again. He'd turned Arthur into his own personal gun. A killer on a leash. Arthur didn't want this life anymore, Hell, if Dutch hadn't found him he might've stood a chance at living on the straight and narrow, becoming an honest man. His feelings toward Dutch were still as sour as the day he died.

Arthur hummed in acknowledgement before asking,"What's the plan now? Where we goin'?"

What he really wanted to say was  _ 'I didn't ask you to fucking shoot me' _ .

Dutch was silent for a moment, "The law's gonna be sniffing around this area for a while, so I figured we'd head west near Strawberry."

"You sure that's a good idea? Last time I was there Micah butchered the whole town."

"That was ten years ago, son. I'm sure it'll be fine," he tried to relieve Arthur, but he still had a bad feeling about it. "It might help that Micah is dead, though."

Arthur's eyebrows raised.

"I shot him. John finished the job." Dutch continued and Arthur could hear any emotion in his voice.

_ John. _

He made it.

All of the air rushed out of Arthur. 

"Least I didn't die for nothin'." He said with a small smile that Dutch couldn't see.

Dutch remained quiet, his eyes resting on the trail in front of him.

-

When they finally arrived in the area, Arthur's head was resting against Dutch's back, his hands loose around the older man's waist. Dutch glanced over his shoulder, seeing the top of Arthur's head with that sand colored hair and how the setting sun painted a few strands gold. He focused his eyes forward once again.

They soon arrived at an even smaller structure than the cabin they were staying in previously. After the gang had split, Dutch had spent some time on the run and discovered several vacant locations that were well hidden. This one happened to be a small house that was run down but still liveable.

He thought about just waking Arthur but he figured if the man could fall asleep so easily, he probably needed the rest. So instead, the older man shifted off the horse, making sure to grip Arthur's shoulder so that he wouldn't fall face first onto the saddle before carefully maneuvering the younger man so that he was able to place one hand under his knees and the other supporting his back.

The first thing he noticed was that it shouldn't be this easy to carry Arthur. He hadn't thought about it back when he'd shot him and had to stow him on his horse. He had rolled the man over once he'd gone unconscious from the blood loss and brushed the sweat damp hair off of his face. Took in the face of the man that he had indirectly killed. Caressed the stubble of his cheek. Wanted to see those cerulean eyes once again. Wondered how he was in front of Dutch when he was  _ dead.  _ He didn't want to shoot Arthur, but another way to stop the man just didn't occur to him. Especially because he wasn't sure it was Arthur just yet.

Dutch didn't get to conclude his thoughts because Arthur's eyes opened, blinking once then twice and shifting his brilliant blue eyes to meet Dutch's before something snapped. His brow furrowed and he ripped himself from Dutch with a well placed shove against the older man's chest, who promptly relinquished his hold with one eyebrow raised. Arthur tumbled to the ground, sand colored bangs falling into his face once again before they were quickly corrected.

"You alright, son?" Dutch asked, staring at Arthur on the ground.

Arthur stood and dusted himself off, "Ain't your fuckin' son," he muttered before grabbing his bag from the Count's back and walking a head of Dutch. The older man watched his back with a fond look in his eye.

Dutch remembers when Arthur was young, back when he first joined Hosea and himself. Hosea had been completely against it. He'd originally wanted to drop him off at an orphanage, said that with where they were going and what they were doing there was no place for a child. They'd found him in the house of a somewhat wealthy family they had been staking out for about a month. The family was taking a trip and and they had been told that the house was empty. However, they had found Arthur when they had heard a creak in the floorboards upstairs and had gone to investigate it. He'd been fourteen years old and starving, looking for anything in the house that could be worth something.

Once Arthur had told Dutch about his father. It was one of those nights that Arthur would wake up panting from nightmares and make his way over to the fire, staring at the embers as they flickered and dimmed before poking the fire to reignite them. Dutch had woken up for no particular reason, or at least not one he can remember, and from the gap in his tent he could see a figure.

They'd talked for a while by the fire and Arthur had opened up to him for the first time since he'd joined them. He'd told Dutch about his daddy, about how after his mother's death he had turned to drink. About how he took everything out on Arthur, whether it was a lost game of poker or if the sun got in his eyes that morning. He'd beat Arthur bloody.

Dutch had promised himself to be better than that man.

In a way, Dutch thinks he's proven himself to be worse.

Arthur was already inside the small house sitting at the worn kitchen table when Dutch came in. Something didn't feel right.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" Dutch asked as he took the seat across from him.

Arthur looked up from where he was picking at the wood of the table, "What  _ isn't _ wrong with this situation, Dutch?"

Like the calm before the storm, Dutch could sense it, feel it in his bones.

"Well, you're alive for one," He knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment it came out of his mouth.

A humorless laugh erupted from Arthur, his hair falling down once more as he bowed his head. He'd have to give Arthur something for that.

"That's the worst part about all this," Arthur spoke, his voice empty, "I was ready, Dutch. I made my goddamn peace at the end."

Dutch could hear wind hitting the sides of the house and making a rattling sound.

"Arthur.." The older man didn't know what to say. For all the time that he spent making speeches, he just didn't have words for this.

His was clutching the hair on the sides of his head now, his hands balled into fists, "I don't know  _ why _ I'm alive, I don't know  _ why _ you care, I keep seeing this fuckin' stag-"

"Arthur," Dutch interrupted, "I care about you-"

"Do you think that because I died I lost my goddamn memory too?" His eyes were cold as he regarded Dutch, "You think I don't remember all the shit you've done to me over the years? All the ways you've fucked me over?" The ice in his eyes was melting and quickly being replaced with smoldering fire.

"I remember you using me when Miss O'Shea had had enough of your bullshit and so you dragged me into your tent, made me _bleed_ with your hand around my throat, " Arthur was deathly still as he spoke, "When you sent me to Saint Denis because Bronte had a  _ simple job _ that needed doing and after I got drugged and raped, it turns out that you'd fucking agreed to it. You sold me like a whore, Dutch...You didn't care then and you sure as hell don't care now," He squeezed his eyes shut as angry tears threatened to spill over.

Dutch couldn't speak. He could only stare at the table in front of him. He heard Arthur take a deep, shuddering breath before standing up, his chair scraping across the wood floor and receding footsteps let him know that he was now alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the title! When I originally started this I didn't plan on it going anywhere so I just named it after the song I was listening to at the time which really has nothing to do with this fic at all. The gold by Manchester Orchestra reminds me of their fucked up relationship a lot more so there's that.

Arthur wouldn't speak to him.

Since the man's outburst a couple nights ago, he hadn't left his room. Dutch had tried to open the door more than a few times but not only was it locked, but as Dutch found out after picking said lock, something heavy was also pushed in front of it. It made sense. After all, Arthur knew him well, knew he could kick the door in or break the lock. It didn't hurt any less, though. 

Inside the room, however, Arthur was perched on the end of the bed, hands loose in his lap as he became lost in thought. 

He was not going to let Dutch get close again. In his last life, he would've done anything for Dutch. He'd worshipped the ground he'd walked on, would've killed anyone that got in the man's way. Hell, back then it didn't matter what Dutch asked of him, he'd do it. Then, of course, he'd gotten sick and it had really put everything in perspective for him. He'd realized that he didn't want to be Dutch's dog anymore, putting himself at risk by following through with Dutch's ill thought out plans. Listening to Hosea in the background telling the man in charge that it's obviously a trap or that they should be heading west and lying low. Somehow arriving back at camp after the 'parley' with Colm, beaten to within an inch of his life and shot twice because of Micah's silver tongue and Dutch's inability to use his fucking brain.

Dutch wasn't even going to look for him, he knew that much. The man was in his tent reading a goddamn book while Arthur was shot twice and struggling to stay awake.

But Arthur has always been able to tell when Dutch is putting on a show, and that he did when Arthur fell from his horse upon his return. Fake. 

_ "You are safe now, Arthur." Dutch had said, all theatrics and flair. _

_"I'm never safe when I'm with you." Arthur_ _didn't say._

Sometimes Arthur wonders how his life could've gone if he had just left. He never would have, not with all the others still following Dutch and being shoved into the line of fire whenever needed. Maybe he could have worked on a small ranch or trained stubborn horses.

That reminded Arthur, he needs a horse. Of course, no horse could ever compare to the beauty that was Buell - the beautiful Dutch Warmblood with a unique cremello gold coat that Hamish had left him upon his passing. He was stubborn at times, yes, but that was part of his charm.

And Arthur had gotten him killed.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, fighting off the memory of his dying horse.

He didn't need to think about that right now.

His eyes drifted towards the window, cracked open a sliver with its curtains swaying in the light breeze.

Walking to the Heartlands was not the best idea. His feet hurt and his lungs burned. The hot humid air did him no favors, causing his white shirt to stick to his sweaty skin.

The trek seemed to last for days and exhaustion was starting to get the better of him. So instead of continuing and passing out as he had after his so-called 'resurrection', Arthur decided to take a break and rest alongside the trail. His feet surely thanked him for it.

Ever resourceful, Arthur slid his cotton suspenders off his shoulders and untucked his shirt. He grasped the white material at the bottom and disgracefully tore off a strip, not caring too much because it was always tucked into his pants anyway. He gathered his hair behind his head, making sure to get the ones matted to his forehead before using the strip of cloth to tie it into place. Arthur stood up once again. 

He was nearly there, just a while longer to go.

-

To say the very least, Dutch was  _ annoyed _ .

It was the third night that Arthur would not speak to him, much less open the door. It reminded him of a pissy adolescent boy and he was about done with it.

Sure, he had done some awful things to Arthur over the years. He had left him for dead and had taken advantage of him so many times. 

After Mary, Arthur almost always came back to camp drunk. At the time, it was a genuine issue that Hosea would constantly worry about. The old man always had a soft spot for Arthur, after all, he was the first of their sons. Although, Dutch didn't always act like a father and he didn't always see Arthur as a son.

One night, Arthur came back to camp at an ungodly hour when Dutch was having a smoke outside his tent. His son looked exhausted and obviously very drunk, barely managing to dismount his horse without falling over. Something in Dutch stirred at the idea of his son, his personal gun, being so very vulnerable. That night Dutch had kissed, licked, and bit every inch of Arthur's skin. He could still remember the whines that Arthur made while Dutch fucked him on his fingers and the choked sob that escaped him as Dutch fully sheathed himself inside. He shivered just thinking about Arthur's hands on his shoulders, weakly attempting to push him away and the fact that Hosea was asleep in the tent next to them.

He knows that it's wrong, but it felt so  _ right _ .

"Arthur!" Dutch pounded his fist on the door, "You need to eat something, it's been three days!"

No response.

"C'mon, Arthur!" His raised voice seemed to echo off the walls of the house.

Again, no response.

Dutch knew it was a bit irrational but it was the only solution he could think of at the moment. The door was unlocked from when he had picked it but it was still barricaded from the inside.

Dutch charged the door. 

He'd have quite a bruise tomorrow, but nonetheless it had worked. The large bookcase that was blocking the door fell to the ground with a crash, one of the shelves breaking from the impact. Looking up from the bookcase, the room was empty.

He was alone.

The window was wide open.

_ Goddammit, Arthur. _

-

Arthur studied the beautiful mare through his binoculars. She had a beautiful dark brown coat that shined red in the moonlight and a mane as dark as the sky. A thoroughbred with a blood bay coat.

Taming horses is exactly as he remembered. The process went pretty smoothly up until Arthur bucked off once, then twice, before finally getting it the third time. He gave the mare a few gentle pats along her neck before taking hold of rope that he had fashioned into a halfway decent bridle. 

The ride back to the house wasn't nearly as treacherous as the walk there. The mare seemed to like him well enough. She didn't quite have the fire that Buell had, but she definitely had some personality. Arthur could tell that much. 

By the time he arrived back at the house, the sun was just beginning to rise. Light began to peek through the clouds and danced along the shiny coat of his horse whom he had yet to name. He'd have to get to know her better first. He hitched her a safe distance away from the count before climbing back through his window.

What he didn't expect was for Dutch to be sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together. He didn't spare Arthur a glance. 

Arthur stayed near the window, just in case. He knew how Dutch got when he was angry. Internally, Arthur hoped they could just throw a few punches and be done with it. He was exhausted and his legs were sore from walking and the saddleless ride.

"You didn't think to tell me that you were leaving?" Dutch asked. His voice was calm, but Arthur didn't trust it.

"I'm not part of your damn gang anymore, Dutch," Arthur spoke,"I'll go as I please." 

Dutch finally turned his head to make eye contact with Arthur, "Then why'd you come back?" 

It was a calculating stare. He was trying to pin Arthur, get him to admit that he wanted to stay with Dutch for some fucked up reason. The cogs were turning.

Arthur gestured to his journal and satchel that were resting on the bedside table,"Forgot my things," he answered lamely.

Dutch just raised an eyebrow, as if saying ' _ you expect me to believe that?'  _ . Arthur agreed, it was a pretty terrible attempt. Dutch stood, approaching Arthur near the window. The older man caressed the skin of his cheek, fingers catching against his stubble. "Where'd you go?"

Arthur's breath hitched as Dutch's other hand snaked down to his waist before coming to rest at his hip. "Heartlands," Arthur answered after what felt like an eternity.

Dutch hummed, he knew exactly what to do to get to Arthur. " And what, pray tell, were you doing up there?" His thumb brushed over Arthur's bottom lip.

Arthur wanted Dutch in an irrational way. He didn't understand it. Even after everything, he still wanted him.

Arthur huffed a laugh, "Can't very well keep riding with you everywhere, Dutch."

Dutch pulled on one end of his makeshift hair tie until it came undone, his hair falling back down to frame his face as the strip of cloth fluttered to the floor. "Arthur," he sighed, "we could've just gone to the stables near Rhodes."

"You know that's not how I do things Dutch." 

Dutch's hands were removed only to hook his fingers under the straps of his suspenders, slowly pulling them down off Arthur's shoulders. "Of course not. You always did like taming your own."

Dutch's eyes searched Arthur's own. They were  _ asking _ , something Dutch rarely did. 

Upon receiving Arthur's nod, Dutch gripped his shirt and pulled him towards the bed while Arthur wondered if he was making a mistake. Dutch straddled his hips and began unbuttoning the younger man's shirt until it hung loosely at his shoulders. 

Dutch's eyes roaming over his chest felt almost judgemental. Arthur's body was a shadow of what it once was, no longer broad shoulders packed with muscle. Instead he was lean, his stomach flat and hard where there used to be the slightest softness. Around the time things started going to shit and provisions were once again limited, Arthur had started giving away his food to John and his family. He was dying anyway, it's not like he really needed it. 

Dutch's hands were splayed across his chest, Arthur nearly gasped as he brushed over a nipple. He could see the grin spread across Dutch's face.

In no time, Dutch had him undressed. The older man pressed his lips against Arthur's own softly and Arthur couldn't help but think that this was out of character for Dutch. They hardly ever kissed. When Dutch bedded him, it was always quick and sloppy or painful. This wasn't either of those. 

It felt wrong. They weren't made for this.

Without thinking, Arthur shoved Dutch back. The man fell back onto the balls of his feet with a questioning and almost hurt expression. Arthur hesitated for a moment, his eyes cast downard. It was quiet until he finally spoke.

"I don't want anything sweet with you, Dutch."

He didn't want the memories that would come with it. Arthur could deal with bad memories. Usually that's all there was, just bad experiences after bad experiences. But good ones? Ones where Dutch was soft and gentle and loving? Those would stick with him, make him hurt when Dutch turns around and leaves him in the dust once again.

Just by looking at his eyes Arthur knew Dutch understood. It didn't matter what Dutch had done to him in the past, Arthur would always be drawn to him. It was fucked up but he'd been groomed at a young age and told that loyalty was everything. Of course after all these years it was subconsciously there, just under the surface.

"Make it hurt," Arthur spoke. Dutch's eyebrows furrowed, as if contemplating whether to go on. A moment of hesitation. And then, action.

Arthur was pressed back onto the bed and the force of it was almost enough for the air to rush out of him. His wrists were caught by one hand and held above his head while the other raked it's nails down his side, hard enough to leave marks and cause Arthur to hiss in pain. 

Dutch teased him, pinching a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Running his hands anywhere and anywhere except Arthur's aching cock. 

Dutch was never really one for foreplay, he always skipped straight to the main event and this time was no different. Arthur watched as the man slicked his cock with Vaseline before wiping his hands off and flipping Arthur over onto his stomach.

He could feel the blunt tip of Dutch's cock resting at his entrance but not pushing in.

"Are you sure?" Dutch asked.

"Yeah-" Arthur was cut off by Dutch shoving into him, all the way until he was fully enclosed in Arthur's tight heat. The younger man's wall clenched and quivered around him. It felt amazing. He'd missed being with Arthur like this.

Arthur on the other hand was breathing hard, one hand gripping the sheets while the other was in his mouth stifling a scream. White, hot pain ran up Arthur's entire body as Dutch began to move. His shoulders shook and his hand bled as the pain intensified. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He thinks that Dutch must've wanted to hear him scream because his wrists were wrenched away and held behind his back as Dutch's other hand tangled itself in Arthur's hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck. The grip on his wrists loosened before disappearing altogether. Instead, Dutch's hand was spread across Arthur's sternum, acting as support as he pulled Arthur up towards him. The grip on his hair was rough and he had a feeling that this was part of the reason Dutch had asked him not to cut it.

Arthur's back was flush with Dutch's chest as the man continued his thrusting. Just when the pain had been brought down to a gentle simmer, Arthur let out a cry as Dutch's teeth connected with his skin at the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet and the man bit down  _ hard _ . In the corner of his eye he could see blood dripping from the wound as he felt Dutch shove in as deep as he could, pressing Arthur down onto his cock as he tensed up and spilled his load inside with a groan.

Dutch pulled out after a moment, lowering Arthur back onto the bed. The man had eyes closed and brows furrowed, no doubt gritting his teeth. Dutch brushed away the strands of hair that were matted to his forehead with sweat. He let his hand migrate down the side of Arthur's face, cupping his jaw.

"Are you alright, Arthur?" He asked.

" 'm fine,"

"You're shaking," he pointed out, ignoring the drying tears on the man's cheeks.

Arthur didn't respond and instead turned away from Dutch, facing the window.

His ass hurt like hell and the bite's throbbing was relentless. It was like fire was spreading throughout his body.

It was his own fault. He'd told Dutch to make it hurt and he'd done just that. At least it was within his control this time.

He felt Dutch reposition himself behind Arthur, chest flush with his back once again as he wrapped an arm around his waist. The bleeding had stopped.

Arthur closed his eyes, wishing that today had never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I can't porn
> 
> I also added some new tags


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get better at writing but it's just not working out lmao

Arthur has dreams.

Well, more like memories that play in his mind, like one of those fancy projectors against a white sheet.

Fond memories like when Hosea had taught him how to make a fishing pole and took him down to the small lake near their campsite. It had only been the three of them, back then. They would find John later on and take him in, relieving Arthur of his spot as their 'favourite' son. At that point, Arthur had only been the favourite because he was their  _ only _ son. Arthur can still remember how the sun glinted off the water beautifully, and how Hosea had wrapped his arm around his shoulder, smiling when Arthur caught his first fish. Though, at the time, Arthur had loved both men as family, Arthur had always had more of a father-son relationship with Hosea. 

Hosea was always the kind of father that Arthur had dreamed of when he was younger, lying on the floor battered and broken and staring at the ceiling.

Dutch, however, had taught him how to shoot. It made sense because, really, that's all Dutch wanted in the long run: another gun. 

Dutch had lined up empty whiskey bottles on top of some boxes, put a revolver in Arthur's hand, and  _ 'always pull the trigger on empty lungs' _ .

That's one of his first memories of Dutch being genuinely proud of him. He'd taken out all five bottles in quick succession and watched the older man's eyes light up with interest. Arthur wonders if he would've been as good a shot if he'd not been so desperate for Dutch's approval. From that point on Dutch would take him on all their jobs and for once Arthur wasn't just acting as a lookout. He'd assumed the position as Dutch's best shot and right hand man by the time he was seventeen.

Around the time Arthur was nineteen, Dutch wasn't just  _ interested _ anymore. 

After a job well done with a take of about eight hundred dollars – which was pretty good back then, with what little they had to work with – Dutch had made a move. Hosea had announced that he was retiring early for the night and as soon as the man was tucked away in his own tent, Dutch had pulled Arthur into his own. 

It didn't hurt then. From what he remembers, it had felt amazing. Dutch was more than a little turned on by the dried blood that was spattered across the side of Arthur's face and caked onto his fingertips and under his fingernails. He'd kissed him, marked him, and fucked him. At one point having to slide his hand over Arthur's mouth to quiet his moans. 

_ 'My beautiful killer',  _ Dutch had whispered into his ear.

Arthur was his gun. All Dutch had to do was hold him, kiss him, touch him and Arthur would kill anyone he asked.

At one point Arthur thinks he might've enjoyed it.

It's like flipping a coin. Some nights he gets these beautiful memories, filled with light that makes his heart ache for the old days – when everything was still  _ fine.  _ Other nights start off as that very same dream, a beautiful memory before it is  _ warped _ and  _ corrupted _ and everything is  _ wrong, wrong, wrong. _

And Arthur can't wake up.

Like the first time they fucked, except it feels like when they were at Shady Belle. Dutch pounding into him mercilessly, a hand over his mouth and pain enveloping his entire body. A whisper of  _ 'Almost there, son' _ so close that he can feel the man's breath on his cheek. Only after he thinks it's finally over does Dutch finally stab a blade deep into his chest, smiling as he watches Arthur's eyes go dark with his blood slick prick still buried inside him.

Hosea going fishing with him, except instead of a fatherly arm around his shoulder, he's being thrown to the ground and shouted at by the one man in the world that Arthur truly saw as a father.

_ 'You should've tried harder Arthur!' _ And there's a bite to his voice that cuts Arthur deep, stabs through his ribs and straight into his heart.  _ 'We should've left you in that house to starve!' _ Hosea yelling at him was always something that Arthur had feared, as a child and as an adult.

Milton is there suddenly, putting a bullet in Hosea's chest. And there is nothing Arthur can do but watch as the blood soaks his shirt.

_ 'This is your fault,'  _ He says with his dying breath, and Arthur feels useless all over again.

-

He hasn't touched a gun since his death. 

The revolver is heavy in his hands, cold and without blemishes. Brand new.

Arthur slides a bullet into the chamber and spins it once, twice. Feels the cold steel of it against his temple. But he can't.

He can't do it.

So instead he gathers the bottles left behind in the small house and makes some distance. He goes into the nearby woods deep enough that the sound should be muffled, even just a little. 

There's a lone tree stump in the clearing, surrounded by crumpled, dead leaves and stray sticks. Arthur lines up the bottles just like in his dream – in his memory – and he imagines once again, Dutch positioning his hands over the revolver, straightening his shoulders. 

_ Hold steady and firm. _

_ Focus. _

_ Breathe slowly. _

_ Always pull the trigger on empty lungs. _

Four consecutive shots echo into the forest, birds scatter from the trees, and a rabbit runs out of a nearby bush.

All four bottles are shattered, their pieces glinting against the light of dusk. 

And Arthur wants to cry.

The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the forest floor and Arthur is somewhat glad it didn't discharge.

A part of him wished that he wouldn't be able to shoot like he could before. Maybe he'd lost his eye for it or something, just like he had come back from the dead tuberculosis free. Of course not. 

Arthur joins the gun on the leaf littered ground and stares up at the sky as the sun slowly peeks out from the clouds, the sky still the dull blue of the early morning. He remembers when he went hunting with Hosea and the man had told him that there's never really any getting out of the 'life'. Arthur believes him now. Arthur wasn't sure if John had gotten out or not, but John had always been more strong willed than Arthur. And most of his family wasn't dead like Arthur's.

He blinked and when he opened his eyes, a hand was reaching out. An offer. Arthur took it.

Dutch lifted him off the ground and whiskey brown met ocean blue as the older man's eyes bored into his with concern.

"I miss Hosea," Arthur spoke, barely above a whisper. Dutch's arm slid around his waist, the other against his shoulder blades.

"I know son."

He'd let Dutch hold him. Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a filler chapter but some stuffs gonna happen soon


	9. Chapter 9

Dutch hadn't asked him any questions. He only glanced from the gun to the broken bottles, a small smile appearing onto his face. He'd laid a hand on Arthur's shoulder and led him back to the house.

They'd enjoyed their coffee silently as the sun hung high in the early morning sky.

Dutch glanced over at Arthur. His hair was a mess, his collar was unbuttoned down to this chest, and dark circles under his eyes. 

"You been getting any sleep?" Dutch asked, setting his mug down onto the wooden table.

Arthur looked up from his own drink, eyes focusing as if he had just returned from a dimension of his own. "Sure," he'd said. Dutch knew it was a lie.

The older man abandoned his drink at the table before returning only a moment later. Arthur wouldn't have noticed his return – too lost in his own mind – had it not been for the gentle hand running through his hair. He couldn't help but sigh.

"Is this alright?"

Arthur nodded.

The hands gently massaged his scalp before pulling back the hair that framed his face and tying it back. It was nice, not having his hair completely tied back, only the slightly shorter pesky strands that always fell in front of his face and obscured his vision. Dutch's hands were still there, though, smoothing out the tangles with his stupid rings catching from time to time.

As Dutch looked down upon the exposed neckline of the man, his eyes narrowed. There was no bite mark. He jerked the shirt completely over Arthur's shoulder, exposing the skin there. Unblemished.

"The hell are you doing?" Arthur turned around quickly, brows furrowed and teeth bared.

"I bit you. Last night."

"Yeah and it fuckin' hurt," he muttered as he tried pulling his shirt back onto his shoulder only to have it yanked down again.

"It's not there, Arthur." His hand trailing over where the mark should've been.

It wasn't a small nip or anything, there was force behind it - he'd wanted to make him bleed. It would have left a bruise or at least the imprint of his teeth. There was nothing.

Arthur shrugged.

"Were you sore when you woke this morning?" He asked and Arthur shook his head, genuinely not giving a shit about whether Dutch had left marks on his body or not. Although he does remember that his neck was bleeding last night.

"You should've been."

A smirk pulled at Arthur's lips, "I don't know, Dutch," he paused, "Maybe you're just not good as you think you are."

He was promptly pulled into Dutch's bedroom by his shirt.

Turns out Dutch  _ was _ just as good as he thought he was, leaving Arthur breathless on top of the sheets as the other man pulled out and tucked himself back into his pants.

"So, what?" He asked, still catching his breath, "you think I'm healing?"

"Well, I think you're healing faster than usual," Dutch answered as he took a seat on the bed next to the still naked man.

"How is that more strange to you than me coming back from the dead?" Arthur raised an eyebrow before sitting up, "Hand me my pants, would ya?"

Dutch complied and watched Arthur slip into them, his suspenders hanging from his waist.

"Well, I guess.. you being alive again just sort of happened. This is more like a side effect of that."

Arthur had come back just as he'd died, except this time he wasn't coughing and seemed in general good health so what if-

"I don't wanna talk about this no more, Dutch." Arthur said, grabbing his white shirt from the foot of the bed and leaving Dutch alone in his room.

-

Later that night, when Dutch had arrived back from town, Arthur was sketching in his journal.

He was shading in a beard and dark hair when there was a knock on his door. He snapped the journal shut and set it on the bedside table before allowing Dutch to come in. He looked happy. 

"I was in town and I heard about a ranch," the wrinkles beside his eyes deepened slightly and his eyes glinted with something Arthur wasn't sure of.

"You wantin' to be a ranch hand now, Dutch?" 

The man huffed a laugh before sitting down beside Arthur, the bed dipping slightly. "Of course not. They happen to be very successful and sitting on a lot of cash - or so I'm told."

Arthur knew this was coming. He knew that eventually Dutch would get a lead and come to Arthur, who would always – somewhat reluctantly – have his back. "Dutch, I-"

"I know, Arthur. You've turned over a new leaf, I get it, I do. Just one more score-" it was Arthur's turn to cut Dutch off.

" 'One more score', heard that a hundred times. It ain't ever just 'one more score', Dutch. Nothin's ever enough for you. You'll always need more, but you'll have other's get it for you, risking their lives because  _ you've _ forgotten yourself and found only appetites." Arthur was standing now, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

Dutch gritted his teeth at his own words being thrown back at him. "Well, Arthur, I apologise for taking care of everyone while you were off on your little  _ adventures, _ " Dutch growls and Arthur wants to hit him.

Adventures? Oh, fuck him. Arthur was out earning money to keep the camp supplied. Hunting so that everybody could eat. Neglecting himself to make sure the others weren't  _ dying.  _ He wants to ask Dutch if he's even looked at the ledger they used to keep. Ask if he'd seen the two, three pages that were easily all Arthur's contributions. Ask where the hell Dutch's name was because Arthur sure as hell had never come across it. Instead-

His fist connected with Dutch's face before he even realized what he was doing. The older man stumbled back a step, his hand holding his face. The shadows on his face looked ominous in the dim lantern light. He charged.

Arthur wasn't quite prepared to be tackled to the ground, his hands pinned under Dutch's knees as the older man hit him three times before Arthur managed to hook his leg around Dutch's and flip them over.

The rings Dutch wore had definitely broken open the skin at his cheekbone. It reminded him of when he was younger - all the times when he was younger and had screwed something up in one way or another. Or when he was twenty and reckless and Dutch had kicked him in the ribs enough that one had broken. It had also punctured his lung and nearly killed him, but he won't mention that. He had a feeling that this was going in a dangerous direction. Arthur was  _ afraid. _

He realized a bit too late that he hadn't secured Dutch's arms as a hand shot out, grabbed him by the neck, and sent him crashing to the floor. He hit his head hard on the bedpost, causing a high pitched screeching in his ears and colors swimming in his vision. He supposed Dutch used that to his advantage because then all he could feel was  _ pain _ .

That hand was wrapped around his throat again and all Arthur could think was that dying doesn't sound like a bad idea.

-

When Arthur awoke, he was too sore to move and his body cried out in protest as he cleared his throat to stifle a cough. 

He was on the bed once again and Dutch was sitting down near the end of it, facing away from him. His throat was getting tight

"Tomorrow," Dutch spoke suddenly, "we are going to that ranch and we are robbing them for all they're worth." Dutch's voice was low and cold with no room for discussion. It was a command.

Arthur allowed himself to cough, his body jostling with the movement and sending sparks of pain throughout his body. He felt the wetness of blood on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, there goes that
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying real hard here so hopefully this chapter is somewhat decently written??

Arthur knows this feeling. The tightness of his lungs and the fire he feels burning inside him. He wants to be mad. He wants to be angry. He wants to scream at the sky for doing this to him again, just when he thought he was in the clear. Somehow, as he's leaning over the side of the bed and spitting a mouthful full of blood onto the floor, he only feels empty.

He can see Dutch out of the corner of his eye just staring. Almost as if he remembers the hacking cough, but never the blood. Arthur made sure of it. He hadn't let Dutch see him that weak until the end. Maybe Dutch will get to see all of it this time around. 

"Son?" Arthur thinks he heard, but it sounded too far away.

Another cough and his head is spinning. There's pain sizzling under his skin as well as in his lungs, a deep ache in his torso. He's sure his ribs are broken. He almost wants to laugh. Dutch has broken his ribs once again. He wonders if Dutch had continued beating him even after it was clear who'd won the fight.

Dutch hurries to his side, barely missing the small puddle of blood with his shoe, a hand on his shoulder as he asks, "Arthur, what's going on?" And Arthur wheezes out a laugh. A hand rests on his forehead for a second and he wants to slap it away. He can barely hear when Dutch says something about a fever and begins to unbutton Arthur's shirt. His ears are ringing loudly like the lawmen's whistles. 

He's sure that Dutch is close enough to hear the whistling of his lungs and it pisses him off. When he can finally get a breath in, he wastes it on a raspy "Fuck you" And a weak shove that did little to nothing.

"Arthur,  _ stop it _ ," Dutch hisses, his brow creasing and his eyes narrowing. 

When he was younger, maybe, that would've worked. Arthur would've heard the warning in his tone like a snake hissing before it strikes, but now, Arthur doesn't care.

"Get the hell away from me!" He yells, but he sounds like his throat is lined with sand. Even as he throws his hand out blindly and manages to catch the skin over the man's cheekbone, his body is brimming with pain. Dutch almost looks hurt for a moment before his eyes resume their usual coldness.

For a moment, there is nothing. No pain, no Dutch– nothing. 

And it all rushes back ten fold. Like a small leak in a boat being blown open by a cannon. He can feel every damn bruise and bone in his body and he can't breathe. His eyes widen, his back arches, and his mouth opens in a silent scream. Somehow through the whitening of his vision, he can see Dutch above him eyes wide with panic, blood trickling down from the scratch on his cheek and if Arthur wasn't in such excruciating pain he would smile. For once Dutch knows he doesn't have all the answers and Arthur revels in it.

He thinks he hears screaming, loud and echoing in the small house. He can hear Dutch trying to calm him, hands holding him down to stop his thrashing. As he hears the sickening crunch of bone shifting and snapping, he realizes the scream is his own.

There is fire in his lungs, in his head, under his skin. It moves under the service and his ribs snap into place. Dutch looks mortified above him.

And then, as soon as it began, it stopped. His skin felt as if someone had doused him in freezing cold water. He's vaguely aware that he's shaking and Dutch is saying something, but Arthur doesn't care for anything he has to say nowadays. He doesn't remember closing his eyes as he falls into the deep oblivion of sleep, Dutch's voice still echoing around him.

-

There's sunlight leaking through the curtains and spilling onto his eyelids. Finding it difficult to stay asleep, he finally lets his eyes flutter open. The morning light makes him squint as it dances across every surface of the room, setting it all ablaze with its beauty. 

There's an arm around his waist and a face buried in the crook of his neck, facial hair tickles his skin. His body doesn't hurt at all, he notices as he slips out of the embrace with a single glance at Dutch. He only really likes Dutch when he's asleep nowadays. 

He can't kill Innocents when he's asleep. He can't hurt people when he's asleep. He can't leave people behind when he's asleep. When he sleeps, Arthur can almost imagine that it's 1882 again and Dutch stayed how he was then. Never left Arthur to die. Never left all of them to die.

It's in the past, though. All that already happened. It had already left a mark on his soul and Arthur can't find it in himself to pretend that it didn't. He doesn't even know why he stayed with Dutch for this long in the first place. 

Sometimes he finds himself wondering if he would've lasted longer had he ran off with John and his family earlier. If they'd just gathered up who they could and left. If they'd started anew elsewhere. How many lives could've been spared? 

He sighs softly as he gets dressed. He stripped from the sweat damp clothes that paid tribute to the terrible pain of the night previous and changed into fresh ones. Dark grey pleated pants, a black collared shirt, leather suspenders, black riding gloves, and his shotgun coat. He was careful not to wake Dutch as he made his way to the kitchen area to grab his wingtip gaiters near the door. 

While he was seated at the table and slipping his shoes on, Dutch walked into the room. He paused when he saw Arthur.

"Get back in bed, son," he said, resting his hands on Arthur's shoulders in a way that he believes is meant to be comforting but really just made him feel sick.

Arthur shrugged Dutch's hands off before standing, "I'm fine, Dutch," but the older man didn't believe him.

Dutch shook his head and his brows furrowed, "You didn't see yourself last night.. you were screaming and I.. I didn't know what to do."

He remembers the screaming and the pain and scratching Dutch's face when he got too close. He remembers the sounds of his bones shifting and he remembers coughing up blood once again. He remembers Dutch looking terrified above him.

"And then all of it was gone. The bruises, the cuts everything," He said, his eyes focused on the floor, "Arthur, what  _ was _ that?"

Arthur was at a loss for words. He didn't understand what happened last night anymore than Dutch did. They'd known he was healing, but  _ that _ ? That was something else. And the tuberculosis? He had no idea. All he knew was that he felt completely fine, almost like none of it had happened which left him more confused than ever.

"I don't know, Dutch. I really don't."

Dutch eyes him as he pulled his satchel across his torso and clasped his gun belt around his waist. "Where are you off to? You shouldn't be going anywhere right now. You need rest, son."

Arthur is reminded of the time after they'd gone to retrieve the Indian's horses from that boat.

_ 'ah.. Arthur needs to rest'  _

He'd said it in such a condescending tone and Arthur could have shot him then and there had they been alone. As if he were somehow lazy because he was dying and just couldn't do things at the same rate as them.

"I'm just going to town," he lied, "I'll be okay."

Dutch exhaled hard through his nose, "Arthur," he said, "I'm not going to say it again."

Arthur turned around fully, taking a few steps towards the older man.

"You listen here, Dutch," his voice was calm as he slowly advanced towards the other man, footsteps echoing in the small room. "I don't know what happened last night, but it must've given you quite the scare to have you givin' a shit all of a sudden. But let me clear somethin' up for you: You ain't my boss. You ain't my friend. And you sure as  _ hell  _ ain't my lover. I don't owe you  _ shit. _ "

Arthur was turning to leave when Dutch spoke up, "You ungrateful whore." The tension in the room grew exponentially and Arthur's blood boiled as he stopped, his body going completely still.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," his fist clenched at his sides.

But Dutch went on, "You'll moan while I'm fucking you, but the second I pull out you start blaming me for all your problems once again. You would've been  _ dead _ without me, so I suppose you  _ do _ owe me after all."

Arthur turned around to face the man, his anger prevalent on his face as he met Dutch's eyes. "You _ son of a bitch.  _ I died  _ because _ of you. If I weren't sick, I'm sure you would've put a bullet in me, eventually."

Dutch's eyes flashed with something Arthur couldn't quite place, "Hmm.. I never did ask: how was Bronte?" He smirked.

Arthur's body moved before his mind registered, his fist reared back about to plant itself in Dutch's face. The older man caught his arm and threw him onto the ground where Arthur landed with a grunt. Dutch was on top of him before he knew it, light glinting against his revolvers as they rested in their holsters. 

"I bet he wasn't gentle.. but then again, you always liked it  _ rough _ . Right, Arthur?" His arms were pinned above him and Dutch was working at unbuttoning his shirt. Arthur's heart rate jumped and he could feel panic set in more and more with every unclasped button. He thrashed as well as he could until Dutch stopped. Arthur let out a sigh. Dutch wasn't going to do this after all.

Or that's he thought. The older man took Arthur's gloved right hand in his own and the younger man didn't have time to process before it was twisted and a sickening crack echoed throughout the room.

Arthur let out a choked scream as his wrist broke.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Arthur said through the veil of pain as he tried to calm himself.

Dutch looked at Arthur with those same dark eyes. "Stop whining, Arthur. It'll be healed by tomorrow."

Him healing faster justifies  _ breaking his goddamn wrist _ ?

Dutch was distracted for a moment and Arthur saw this as an opening. Somehow he managed to get his leg under and the sole of his shoe met Dutch's abdomen as he kicked the man off. Dutch landed on the floor next to him with a small 'oof' and was already making to get up again.

Arthur got to his feet just as Dutch did and they studied each other for a moment before both drew their guns at the same exact moment, aiming at the other's chest. Arthur was glad he was left handed, because there was no way he could even hold a gun in his other hand right now, let alone shoot one.

"You're a sick bastard, Dutch."

The adrenaline was wearing off slightly and the pain was only getting worse. His head was throbbing from when Dutch tackled him to the ground and his wrist even more for obvious reasons.

"You need to learn some respect,  _ boy _ ." 

Arthur needed to leave before the situation got any worse so he did the most logical thing he could think of.

He shot Dutch.

Well, not shot so much as a bullet graze to his upper arm. It was enough to stun the older man as Arthur ran out the door, quickly unhitching his horse and haphazardly throwing his leg over her. He took the reins, gritting his teeth as his wrist shifted with the movement, and kicked her into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a lefty so I made Arthur a lefty bc why not


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur had been riding for hours with no specific destination. He didn't want to think about Dutch, there was no point. Every damn time he thought the man was doing better, he would do something that Arthur just couldn't forgive. They were doing quite well, after all, and Dutch hadn't attempted to brutally force himself on Arthur since before he'd died. He knew that Dutch didn't do it just because he was horny. He deliberately did it because he knew it hurt Arthur inside and out, to his very core. Dutch had ruined intimacy for him a long time ago.

The slight burning in his wrist began and he steered his horse into the woods that were near the trail. He swung his leg over her and dismounted before sliding down the trunk of a nearby tree, resting at the base of it. The roots dug into his ass but he ignored it as the pain in his wrist became nearly blinding. Arthur couldn't bring himself to look away, even as he felt the pain of bone grinding against bone and the sickening pops of them realigning. Arthur's face scrunched up as he watched the movement of his skin as it contorted. It was over relatively fast and the pain was nothing compared to the last time. His lip was bleeding from where he had stabbed his teeth into it to avoid crying out.

He rotated his wrist carefully, not surprised that it moved normally with no pain. Like nothing happened. He wondered if his body would still scar or if it would wash all that away too. That line of thought led to many others.

Can he die? Can he age?

Arthur knew in his heart that immortality is definitely something he doesn't want. It just sounds so lonely. He imagines a life in which everything he loves dies around him and he lives on. Having to deal with that pain would surely kill him faster than a bullet and he couldn't do that again, not after Eliza and Isaac.

He unbuttons his shirt and looks down at his chest. His eyes travel to the side where a large patch of scar tissue covers his left shoulder from that O'Driscoll's shotgun. A smile tugs at his lips as he glances downwards near his navel. There's a scar there from when he ended up on the wrong side of a knife. He was only sixteen then, young and reckless. 

_A wilder delinquent you never did see._

He'd almost succumbed to infection that time and he still hadn't learned his lesson.

He still had all his old scars and they all had a story. In a way, it was comforting.

He hauled himself up off the ground and onto his horse, giving her a few pats on the neck before they took off again.

He thinks he's finally found a name for her. It's from a book Hosea had gifted him when he was younger, about Greek gods and goddesses. There was one, if he remembers correctly, that was the goddess of the Earth or something along those lines. She rebelled against the sky, created the mountains and sea, and even tried to overthrow Zeus at one point. He was quite young when he'd read the book, so he wasn't completely sure if what he remembered was correct, but he felt the name suiter her.

"Gaia.." he said to himself before turning his attention to his horse, stroking her neck gently. "You like that, girl?"

Upon receiving no protest from her, he decided to stick with the name.

They rode for a while, the midday sun high in the sky.

-

Eventually, they came across the town of Strawberry. 

Riding without a saddle wasn't the worst of his problems, but it was _a_ problem. His legs were getting sore from the long ride and a saddle would definitely help. If he remembered correctly, there were stables just on the outskirts of town.

When he reached his destination, he dismounted and led her inside.

The saddle was decent and set him back about thirty dollars, leaving him with fifteen out of the forty five that Dutch had given him. Well, there's still a lot you can do with fifteen dollars.

He rode through town until he stumbled across the saloon. He knew it wasn't a good idea, but the last week had been stressful. He deserved a drink.

He hitched Gaia outside, making sure to give her a good pat before he left. 

Once inside he took a seat at the bar. The man behind it set down the glass he was cleaning.

"Whiskey, please," he said, tossing two coins on the counter. 

His drink was delivered quickly and as he raised the glass to his lips, Arthur didn't realize how much he missed the amber liquid. Whiskey was always there for him.

When Eliza and Isaac were killed, Arthur had fallen off the deep end. He often came back to camp at ungodly hours of the night, drunk off his ass and miserable. He remembers the looks of pity Hosea would send his way and Dutch's irritation. The man would berate him constantly, like he didn't think that his child and the mother of his child dying was good enough of a reason for Arthur to get sloppier than the town drunk. He was hurting and he'd blamed himself.

Then there was Mary. As he thinks back on it, he believes that she's the reason that he put little to no value on his life. He'd cared for her so much and she'd say such pretty things about running away together. But when push came to shove, she'd expected Arthur to leave his family to please her own. Then Guarma happened, right after he'd said he'd run away with her. And the letter she'd sent after might as well have been a knife plunged into his chest.

He can remember the first time Mary deserted him. He got drunk as all hell, started a fight, and walked out with some cuts and bruises. He'd returned to camp late at night and only Dutch was awake. He was so damn drunk he can only remember flashes of that night, when Dutch had taken him in his tent. His hands on Dutch's shoulders, pushing. Some pain when Dutch breached him. The man licking a tear off his cheek as he whispered in his ear, _just forget about her Arthur._ As if it was that easy.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the man that had taken the seat next to him.

"You alright there, partner?" He asked and Arthur glanced over.

"Yeah, I'm alright," he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. "Just exhausted, s'all."

"Aren't we all?" The man chuckled, "next one's on me."

Arthur watched as he placed some coins on the bar and the bartender brought them another round.

"You want one?" The man asked, holding a cigarette that Arthur gladly accepted. He lit his own first before holding it out for Arthur, who leaned in to catch the flame.

He took a drag, holding it in for a second and savoring the sweet nicotine as it filled his lungs. "Thank you," Arthur said and actually meant it. He wasn't able to smoke with tuberculosis and god did he miss it.

"So what're you doing out here? Don't mean any offense, but you don't look like the type usually 'round here," he said, eyes panning over Arthur's body with a look that he almost recognized.

Arthur took another drag of his cigarette before replying, "lookin' for work. Heard there was a ranch near here that might be hiring," he pulled his map out and set on the counter, pointing to where Dutch had marked it.

The man nodded, "Beecher's Hope. I know that place. Owned by some guy, got a wife and kid. A real nice ranch, they hire just about anyone provided they do the work." Arthur hummed in response. 

The man's eyes returned once again, and Arthur could place that look now. 

Lust.

"What say you and I get outta here?" 

Now it was Arthur's turn to really look at the man. Dark hair, almost black. Honey brown eyes. Dark stubble along his jaw. _This'll do_.

And that's how Arthur ended up in a hotel room, fingers gripping the sheets as the man pounded into him from behind. It was nice. A little rough, but he supposed Dutch wasn't wrong about that. He did like it rough.

The feeling was extraordinary as the man found that spot inside him that made his toes curl and his cock twitch. Arthur let out a moan.

"You're so good.. so tight.." he whispered in Arthur's ear as he sucked and nipped at his neck, leaving marks that would be gone before morning.

He flipped Arthur over and drew his legs around his waist, slowing his pace and making the other man frustrated beneath him with every leisurely thrust.

His mouth latched onto Arthur's nipple, tongue circling around the bud before sucking and causing the other man to arch into the sensation.

"Please.. fuck me," Arthur practically begged and the man smiled down at him.

"Well.. aren't you just a sight?" He spoke in a low drawl, his eyes filled with raw lust as he ran a hand through Arthur's sandy blonde locks. "How could I say no to this?"

Arthur definitely wasn't ready. The man roughly fucked into him, leaving him panting as his hands immediately went to find purchase on the man's back. His nails dug in, likely leaving scratches but he didn't seem to mind. 

He continued to hit that spot deep inside him until his thrusts grew erratic and Arthur was on the brink of passing out from the pleasure. Breathy moans filled the room until they both came, Arthur's painting his stomach while the other thrust in deep before releasing. Arthur let out a shuddering breath as the man's spend filled his insides. He pulled his softening cock out and collapsed next to Arthur on the sheets. He could feel come beginning to leak out of him and if he hadn't just shot his load, the feeling of it alone would've gotten him all worked up again.

The man turned his head towards Arthur, still catching his breath. "You gotta name?"

"Arthur."

"That come with a last name or just 'Arthur'?" Arthur could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

"Callahan," he answered with a slight smile tugging at his lips. "What about you?"

"Thomas Bailey," he replied as he got up from the bed and Arthur followed suit. 

Once they were dressed once again, Thomas pulled him close with a hand around his waist and the other cupping Arthur's cheek. "Well, Arthur Callahan, if you ever want to have some more _fun_ I work at the gunsmith here. Just ask for me, I'll make it worth your while." 

And with a heated kiss that made Arthur's insides burn, he was gone. 

It was the first time in a while that he had slept with someone who wasn't Dutch and it was _amazing_.

-

Arthur arrived at Beecher's Hope near sundown. 

Thomas's words rang true. It surely was a nice ranch. 

As he entered the area, he noticed it was quiet. Where was everyone?

A shot rang out suddenly, the bullet missing his foot by only an inch. Arthur raised his hands in surrender and backed up a bit.

"I'm not here to cause trouble-," he tried to explain but was cut off.

"Who are you?" A familiar voice rang out, Arthur couldn't quite place it.

"I'm just lookin' for work. Heard you guys might need more hands."

It was quiet for a moment before there was movement and a man was walking towards him.

When he was close enough, he stopped in his tracks, his eyes zeroing in on Arthur. 

And Arthur was at a loss. He knew that scarred face and dark hair.

_Owned by some guy, got a wife and kid_

And it all clicked for Arthur.

"John?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, I don't know much about Beecher's Hope because I can't bring myself to play the epilogue. Maybe I'll play it soon


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's kind of unlikely that Arthur was buried in a casket but I watched Kill Bill before starting this story so there's that

John looks like he's seen a ghost.

To be fair, he may as well have. Arthur can't imagine what he's feeling right about now. John's hand is shaking as his revolver is still trained on Arthur's chest. He doesn't blame him. If John had died and ten years later mysteriously showed up on Arthur's doorstep he would be just as confused.

But the look in John's eye isn't exactly confused. There's distrust in his gaze, burning in those dark umber eyes and Arthur keeps his hands raised in surrender. Even more so, there is conflict. Like he can't decide between the two actions he could take. Like he's fighting a war inside his head.

The younger man takes a few steps towards him and Arthur lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He hoped that John would lower his revolver back into his holster, place a hand on his shoulder and say,  _ 'it's good to have you back, Arthur Morgan' _ .

Instead, he saw the war in John's mind end and felt the blunt metal of his gun connect with his head. He felt to the ground, his vision swimming for a moment before everything went black.

-

Arthur can see the memories playing in his mind once again. It seems to be a common occurrence nowadays. Any time he sleeps, there's always that film reel playing as Arthur is forced to live through the best and worst days of his past life.

Arthur was twenty-two when the three of them rode through a small hick town in the middle of nowhere. There wasn't much promise in the town, but it was a welcomed stop after the long trek from their last camp. Their horses kicked up dust as they trotted along the main road. They split up, eventually. Hosea went to scope out potential victims for a con, Dutch cheated at poker, Arthur took it easy outside of the general store and had a cigarette. Things seemed okay. No bounty posters, no crazy amounts of lawmen lurking about, things were okay there. 

Or they were, until there was a bell ringing faintly and people started gathering like flies to a carcass. Arthur, of course, followed the flock to the source. Upon arriving, he hung back a bit, not mixing into the crowd as he finally laid eyes upon what was drawing everyone in.

The gallows.

Arthur's not even surprised. Townsfolk always did love a public hanging.

Usually he wouldn't care about this kind of thing. If they were caught and hung, it was most likely their own fault. There was a man on the platform going on and on about the crimes this person had committed. Arthur was about to turn his back and leave until he caught a glimpse of the criminal being led up the stairs.

Despite Arthur's eyesight not being the best, he could clearly see that it was a  _ boy _ . A black mop of hair and angry eyes and all Arthur could think was that he can't be more than twelve years old. 

Arthur watched as they tightened the noose around the boy's neck and resisted the urge to empty his stomach at the thought of ending a life so young. Sure, he's killed people, a lot of people – but never someone  _ that  _ young. As he watched the man pull the lever, Arthur's body moved on it's own accord.

A shot.

The rope snapping. 

The boy's body falling underneath the platform.

The lawmen drew arms and the gunfight was a blur. A graze to his thigh, a bullet through his arm, reloading with shaking hands. Reaching his good arm out and yelling "Come on!".

Dutch had been pissed. Not about the rescue but about Arthur's recklessness. After all, it wasn't the first time that Arthur had allowed himself to be shot just for the well being of someone else. He'd thrown himself in front of Dutch once and taken a bullet to the thigh. Never Hosea, though. The man was smart, never needed Arthur to protect him.

John hated them, at first. Scowled when they tried to befriend him. He'd reminded Arthur of a cat, hissing when they got too close. Eventually, he'd warmed up to Arthur and they became like brothers (despite Dutch teasing that John had developed a crush on him). Arthur had taught him to shoot and by the time he could go on jobs with them, he'd proven himself to be quite good.

Arthur misses those days. He longs for the days when everything was fine and they didn't have to worry as much about being killed in their sleep. The film stops rolling.

He wakes up on a bed in a small room. The sheets are soft underneath him and he resists the urge to curl into that softness and let sleep take him once again. His coat is on the chair next to him, covered in dirt. John probably dragged him to the house. He stares up at the ceiling as he recalls John hitting him and begins to expect nearly the same treatment Dutch had given him at first. Maybe even worse.

He can hear voices near the door, arguing, audible through the thin door.

"It's just not possible, John! We  _ know _ he was dead! Charles  _ buried  _ him!" It's Abigail's voice, both a whisper and a yell at the same time.

"I know, Abigail. But.. what if it is him? I don't know how but.. he looks just like him.." John's voice sounds tense, pained even. 

He hears a heavy exhale and footsteps, which he assumes is Abigail. The door opens then and Arthur prepares for the worst. 

John is there, his hair much shorter than Arthur remembers it and eyes more intense. He's aged, no longer the twenty-something year old Arthur knew. John is almost intimidating now. Almost.

The door is shut behind him and John eyes Arthur.

"Who are you?" John asks with a sigh.

"Not gonna believe me. That or you already know," Arthur mumbles. 

John considers for a moment before speaking, "How did we first meet?" It doesn't even feel like a question.

Arthur understands. It's a test, so that John can confirm that he's not some kind of imposter. "You were gonna swing. I shot the rope." Arthur lets out a small laugh before continuing,"You hated all of us at first. I still remember when you tried to hit Dutch."

Some of the tension leaks out of John, but Arthur knows he won't let it all go until he's got all the answers. Too bad not even Arthur has all of them.

He moves Arthur's coat to lay on the back of the chair before taking a seat. John doesn't pull any punches. "How are you alive?" He sounds frustrated, like everything he knows has been thrown out the window and nothing makes sense.

"I.." Arthur hesitates. Telling John all this, telling him how he had to fight his way out of his own grave.. it just makes him feel  _ wrong _ , like they're human and he's.. something else. He hates it more than anything. "I don't know."

John sighs, "Well, what's the first thing you remember?" 

Arthur doesn't really want to think about that. About the burning sun, the splinters lodged under his nails– or at least the ones that were still attached. "A casket."

John's eyes widened as he connected the dots in his mind. "Y-you had to.."

"Yeah." Arthur's voice sounded choked.

"Fuck, Arthur. That's.." he trailed off and ran a hand through his dark hair. Arthur nodded. "So, what have you been doing? Did you find any of the others?" John asked and Arthur looked away and sighed.

"Dutch found me at Valentine. Shot me when I tried to run." His hand absentmindedly came to rest on his shoulder, "was with him up until a few days ago."

John's brow furrowed. "That bastard.." John looked Arthur in the eyes, "I know what he used to do to you, Arthur-" 

"Don't. Just.. don't," Arthur cut him off. The fact that John knew about that unsettled him to no end. He sure as hell didn't want to talk about that with someone he viewed as a younger brother. He cleared his throat, "He heard about your ranch while he was in town, tried talkin' me into robbin' ya before I ran."

John's brow creased as he let out a quiet hum. "You think he'll still do it?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it past him. You got enough guns?"

John smiled before he answered, "You, me, Sadie, and Charles? Son of a bitch doesn't stand a chance."

Arthur's eyebrows rose. "Sadie and Charles? They're here?" John nodded.

"I'll have to explain everything to them first, so Sadie doesn't blow your brains out. She doesn't think you're you." Arthur understands, he wouldn't believe himself either given the circumstances.

John stands from his spot on the chair, his back cracking as he does before holding a hand out to Arthur. "Let's get you something to eat. Looks like you haven't had a decent meal in ages."

Arthur accepts.

-

Sadie is wary of him at first. It's completely understandable, but it still stings. She keeps a healthy distance from him at all times and refuses to meet his eyes. She treats him like a stranger, which after all this time he might as well be. A lot can happen in ten years. He learns that she's taken up bounty hunting and returns to the ranch when she's not on jobs. He's proud of her for making a decent living by hunting down what they used to be.

Charles acts like nothing is wrong. He finds that it's worse than being treated like a stranger. Charles treats him fair and doesn't ask questions. Doesn't ask about Dutch like Sadie and John did. Doesn't ask how the hell he was alive. The closest he gets is when he thanks Charles for the burial and tells him that he picked a beautiful spot. There's hesitation in his eyes, and his mouth opens and closes a few times like he wants to ask. His mouth settles on staying closed and he nods in response before busying himself with something else. A few nights later, when they are seated at a campfire outside of the house, Charles finally caves. He tells Arthur about how the Indians believe in reincarnation and that it sounds similar to what happened to Arthur. The only thing that didn't match up was that he still had the same body. Arthur finds it interesting to say the least.

Once Abigail had abandoned her suspicions, she seemed incredibly happy to see Arthur. She was even more happy when Arthur began helping with the chores, since it turned out they did need more hands. Jack didn't seem wary of him, just a little confused. After all, he was much younger when Arthur passed and he probably didn't remember it too well. He's about fifteen years old and mature for his age. Arthur knows he'll do better in life than any of them did.

Before he knows it, two weeks have gone by and Arthur is happy once again and death is no longer as tempting. He's back with his family and has no doubts about where he belongs.

-

Dutch doesn't know what has gotten into him.

He's lost Arthur for good this time, he's sure. He knows it's his own fault and the guilt is slowly eating away at him. 

He loves Arthur, he truly does, but when the man talks back to him it's like a switch flips in his mind and he becomes a monster. He's used Arthur a lot over the years. He'd even sacrificed the man later on at Fort Wallace. He'd denied it when confronted, but he knew as well as Arthur did. He'd heard Arthur's plea for help and instead watched as an already dying man nearly took a blade to the chest. At the time, he'd seen it as necessary – and that terrified him. That he could so easily leave behind someone that used to be his lover and later became his victim.

Micah had seduced him with his forked tongue and without Hosea there to defuse all of his reckless ideas, things we're bound to go downhill fast. The hurt in Arthur's eyes when Dutch had called him a traitor was still at the forefront of his mind even after ten years. He wishes things had stayed the way they were at Horseshoe. When Dutch had openly told Arthur that he was always special to him and Arthur's beautiful moans when they rented a room at the motel that night. Before Arthur was sick. Before Arthur had gotten sick because of  _ him _ . Because  _ he'd _ told him to help Strauss and Arthur was always loyal to a fault. 

Arthur had gotten himself killed because of Dutch, he sees that now. He knows that he hated everything Dutch was doing, but he stayed to get the others out. To help them get away from Dutch and the toxicity that enveloped him.

When they were on Mount Hagen, Dutch had stopped and asked where they'd buried Arthur. There was hesitation from John, but he'd ended up telling him anyway. He'd visited Arthur and it truly was a beautiful final resting place. Dutch knew he would've loved it. He probably would've loved it even more if he hadn't had to dig himself out of his own grave.

Dutch knows that if Arthur is smart, he won't come back. So the most he can do is dry his tears and find a distraction. Arthur didn't want to do the ranch job, but Arthur's not here now.

He starts going to saloons, making small talk and recruiting guns until eventually he has a team of fifteen men. It's a little much, but if they have money then they're likely to be protected. The cogs in his head begin to turn and he's planning once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altered some of the timeline – Sadie and Charles didn't go to Canada
> 
> Next chapters probably gonna get a little heavy.
> 
> Also in some parts there are slight nods to blind man Cassidy's fortunes so if you can find them you get a gold star


	13. Chapter 13

Life on the ranch is peaceful. It's a welcomed break from looking over his shoulder and sleeping with one eye open. The most they had to worry about were mangy wolves picking at the livestock and would-be thieves looking to make a quick buck. It feels safe in a way Arthur never thought he could feel.

They eat dinner regularly, and Arthur has finally gained back a small bit of the mass that he had lost. He's feeling healthier as of late, both in mind and body. Yet somehow, despite being with a family that genuinely appreciates him, Dutch still lingers in the back of his mind. Maybe he misses him, or maybe it's the threat of Dutch showing up with a dozen guns for hire, but he just can't shake it. 

Arthur notices how John's eyes linger on him and how his hand lingers on his shoulder just a few seconds too long. Arthur's not the smartest man alive, but he's not blind. He knows John's had his eye on him since he'd hit puberty. Arthur doesn't quite understand love, but he understands lust. He knows the thirst that being alone for too long can leave with you. He knows the aching need for a warm body or just somebody to hold him, to make him feel wanted. Or the need for a distraction so you don't have to think about anything but how good everything feels. Maybe that's why he hadn't left Dutch. Not before or after death.

But with John, things are different.

The evening sun was setting when Arthur finally called it a day and made his way back to the shed that functioned as his room. Abigail had been the one to propose the idea on account of them not having any more space in the house. She knew him well enough to know what he preferred. He never liked living in close quarters with others despite how much he cared for them. So instead, they'd gone into town, bought all they needed, and got to work building it. The shed itself was big enough for a bed, desk, and dresser. It was all he really needed.

It'd been probably one of the hottest days since Arthur arrived and the air itself felt like it was boiling. His body protested as he sat down on his bed and buried his face in his hands. It'd been a long day of labor and Arthur's body was hating him for it. Without warning, the door opened and John stepped in. 

"You alright?" He asked.

Arthur sighed. "Yeah.. long day, that's all," he said as his hand reached to pull out the hair tie Abigail had given him. John watches intently as his hair falls back down to frame his face.

"You gonna cut it any time soon?" 

Arthur raises an eyebrow slightly and a smirk tugs at his lips. "You want me to?"

"No," John says instantly. "No, it.. it suits you."

Arthur huffs a small laugh. "You're not the first to tell me that." John looks confused for a moment before his eyebrows raise in realization.

"Dutch, huh?" Arthur nods. "Why did you leave him? Last time 'round you didn't leave until the very end."

Arthur is caught off guard and debates in his mind whether it'd be a good idea to tell him. He won't mention explicitly how Dutch held him down, broke his wrist, and tried-

"Had a fight. He got.. _upset_."

John took a seat next to Arthur on the bed and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey.. you know you can talk to me about anything, right? I'm not gonna judge you."

Arthur looked over with annoyance shining bright in his eyes. "What're you workin' at, Marston?"

"Nothing. Just worried about you."

"Don't be."

An uncomfortable silence follows and it's only when John is at the door that he speaks again. "Abigail says dinner's ready."

"Tell them to go on ahead. I'm gonna get some sleep."

"Arthur.." 

"John, everything's fine. I'm just tired."

A frustrated exhale from his nose, and John finally leaves.

That same gut feeling is still lurking, so Arthur makes sure that his weapons are prepped and ready to go next to his bed before drifting off into the nothingness of sleep. 

-

Arthur wakes suddenly with unease sparking under his skin and sweat on his brow. His heart is racing and he isn't sure why. His eyes skim over his room and nothing is out of place. He bows his head and digs his palms into his eyes in frustration. Why can't his mind just shut up and let him sleep?

And then he hears it: unfamiliar voices whispering just outside his shed.

"How do you want to do this?" He hears one say, their voices muffled by the wood.

"He said to search the outer buildings and he'll take the main house. We gotta do this quietly, though. So.. I'll search in here and you guys go search the barn and stables. See if they've got any good horses or valuables layin' around that could be worth somethin'." 

He heard footsteps growing distant and Arthur presumed they were headed toward the barn. He took his knife from his desk as quietly as he could before sliding up against the wall next to the door. The knife was solid in his grasp as he heard the other set of footsteps getting closer. The door opened slowly and Arthur let the man walk in before grabbing him from behind and stabbing the knife into his neck. Blood sprayed from the wound, painting a small portion of Arthur's face even as he angled his face away. He gently rested the body onto the wood of the floor before gathering his gun belt and a rifle.

Sneaking around was easy enough. The men weren't that bright but they had numbers on their side. It seemed that quietly taking them out one by one wasn't an option. Should he get to the house and wake the others or open fire and hope that they come out to help? 

He decides on the later because the men are already at the stables and probably about to run off with their horses. Gaia was pretty feisty and one of them would likely leave missing a few fingers, but he wasn't sure about the others. 

There's a stack of firewood that has yet to be chopped, just big enough to take cover behind. It's not too far from him and it's better than nothing. Once behind it he loads the bolt action rifle that John was kind enough to give him for when he and Charles decide to take up the night watch. He guesses from the unlit fire that nobody was on watch tonight. Or maybe he was supposed to be, but he'd retired early. 

Arthur can see a stag in the distance, just over the hill and barely visible. He's only seen it in dreams since he came back from the dead, so seeing it while he's awake is unsettling. He ignores it and lines up a shot before pulling the trigger. 

The bullet crashes into the side of the man's head while blood and viscera follow it on the way out. It stuns the rest of them for a moment before they all draw their guns. The least he can do is keep them distracted so they won't notice when one of the others join him.

He pulls the bolt back and forward again before taking aim and shooting once again. It's like clockwork and he won't admit to himself that he's missed this. He lines up a shot once again only for the man to fall dead before he's even pulled the trigger. He looks over to find Mrs. Sadie Adler taking cover behind a wagon and firing off shots from her revolver. The men migrate to cover which, annoyingly, makes them a bit difficult to pick off.

It turns into a gun fight relatively quickly.

Shots are being fired and he can see John and Charles run out of the house and get behind a few crates with weapons drawn. 

And then Arthur sees him. Dutch with his twin revolvers, no doubt realizing who he had attempted to rob. His men were dropping like flies around him. He sees Arthur in that moment. 

Their eyes connect and it's almost like time has slowed. Dutch's eyes switch between confused, frustrated, and sorry almost like he can't decide. Arthur's eyes catch on something just above Dutch's left shoulder. Of fucking course it's the stag, can't be more than ten feet from Dutch, but the older man doesn't even notice it. It doesn't startle at the three quick shots that ring out, either. It's surreal, a deer sticking around for a gunfight.

Arthur's body flinches back for a reason he doesn't understand and Dutch's gaze now rests on his chest. His eyes are wide and his mouth is agape with terror. Arthur looks down.

At least he knows those shots didn't hit anyone else.

There are three holes in his shirt, arranged in a triangle shape and just slightly left of the center of his chest. He's been shot but he can't even feel it. Blood is pouring from the wounds slowly, soaking the white fabric of his shirt and turning it red. Instinctively, he holds his right hand to his chest and takes his revolver from it's holster. 

The stag is even closer now, close enough to touch. But for now, he settles on ignoring it once more.

He's still shooting with the same accuracy as before, albeit slower, and the men are dropping fast. When his chest starts to ache, he watches as Dutch turns his guns on his own men. The pain is intensifying fast and breathing is making it so much _worse_. He puts his back to the logs, closes his eyes, and focuses on breathing. 

He doesn't notice that the shooting has stopped, nor the hurried footsteps and his family calling his name.

"Arthur! Arthur, you gotta stay awake!" John, he recognizes through the haze. There's hands on his shoulders, gently shaking him that he guesses belong to John as well.

" _Christ alive._ I'm trying, John." There's a bite to his voice that he doesn't intend for and he can taste blood in his mouth.

His hand is pulled away from where it was hiding his wounds and he can hear sharp gasps from those around him. There are rushed footsteps coming near before another voice lets itself be known.

"Get away from him." It's Dutch, of course.

The click of a hammer being pulled back and John's voice.

"I should shoot you where you stand.." 

His blood is loud in his ears. He can't open his eyes if he wanted to now. He's slipping and his mind is panicking. It's not quite the same as how he felt when he last died, but it's close enough. He just wishes he'd had a little longer.

They're arguing above him, but it's muffled like he's underwater. Like he's drowning. He manages to make out the words _'He's not like us'_ before he finally lets everything go and falls into a deep oblivion.

-

"I should shoot you where you stand, you son of a bitch!" John yells, his gun aimed at Dutch's chest who raises his hand in surrender.

"You can do that later. We need to get him inside." He says, gesturing to Arthur.

John looks gutted as his eyes flick down to Arthur who is just barely breathing. "He's not gonna make it, Dutch. Three shots to the chest.. we can't save him. You as good as killed him yourself."

Dutch pinches the bridge of his nose, "He's.." he sighs, "He's not like us."

"The hell you mean by that?" 

"I'll tell you when he's inside." Dutch concludes before slipping an arm under Arthur's knees and the other bracing his back.

Sadie gives up her room easily, saying she'll take Arthur's shed in the meantime. He carries him to the house and John holds the door open, his eyes never leaving Dutch even as he places Arthur down on Sadie's bed. 

"Pliers, whiskey, and bandages." He tells John as he begins stripping Arthur of his shirt. There's no blood on the back of Arthur's shirt so he know he's going to have to dig the bullets out. 

If it weren't for Arthur's body being the way it is, he'd surely be dead right now.

John comes back a moment later with the supplies and Dutch gets to work immediately, pouring the whiskey onto the pliers and not caring when it splashes onto the floor. He takes a deep breath before attempting to find the first bullet. The moment the pliers enter the wound and begin digging around, Arthur's eyes snap open, bleary and unseeing. When the pliers move again, he screams and the sound of it makes Dutch cringe. 

Getting the bullets out is a battle, but he can't have Arthur's body heal with them still inside. Arthur is screaming and fighting and Dutch has to wave John over to hold him down. When the last bullet is removed, Arthur has already passed out again. He bandages the wound and takes one last look at Arthur before he follows John to the sitting area.

John finally speaks once they're both seated. "So?"

Dutch raises an eyebrow. "So?"

John sighs in annoyance. "You said you'd tell me once we got him inside. So talk."

Dutch runs a hand through his hair, "He.. _heals_ ," he doesn't know how else to put it. "He heals very fast." God, he sounds like an idiot. 

"What does that even mean?" John says with irritation in his voice.

"Did he tell you his wrist was broken when he left me?" John shakes his head. "Probably because it healed not long after."

John's brow furrowed, "Why was his wrist broken?"

Dutch looked away with shame. "Because I broke it." He could tell it was taking everything John had not to hit him. "Anyway, it's not pleasant, for us or him. If you thought it was bad in there, trust me, it gets worse." 

"What do you mean?"

"When he heals, at least from what I've seen, it causes him a great deal of pain. You can see it happen. His bones move around if they're broken. Cuts sew themselves closed. If it's a small thing like a scratch or a bruise, it doesn't hurt him at all, but.." he trails off. "There's a trade off."

"What?"

"I don't think his tuberculosis is gone," Dutch says, "I think it's dormant. Like when he has a bad injury, his body prioritizes that and he starts coughing again. I think right now his body is just keeping him alive, not healing yet. When it does, though, it's gonna be hell."

There's silence for a few moments before John gets up and throws him a blanket.

"You're sleepin' on the couch. Try anything and I'll put a bullet in your skull." He walks down the hallway to his own bedroom.

Dutch won't be sleeping anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shitty ending to this chapter, couldnt think of a good way to end it
> 
> Arthur's gonna have an angsty fever dream


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked hard on this so I hope it's good??

When Arthur finally wakes, he's sprawled out on the cold floor and staring up at a ceiling he doesn't recognize. It's quiet except for the faint sound of a gramophone playing in the distance.

When he finally stands up and takes in his surroundings, he's confused. A corridor with walls adorned in ornate patterns and empty gilded frames surrounds him. There are a few doors on either side and he tries them as he walks, only to find that they are locked with the exception of one. He finds it at the end of the corridor and gently eases it open.

It's then that he notices how uncomfortable his clothes are. The material is nice and obviously high quality, but it just doesn't sit right with him. He chances a glance down at the three piece suit, all too similar to the one he'd worn to the mayor's party, and is stuck with a sense of foreboding. As he tears his eyes away and redirects his gaze back up, it's the same corridor. The only difference is that now, there are pictures in the frames. 

Hosea, Lenny, Susan, Molly, Eagle Flies, Sean, Kieran.

And Arthur fights the urge to empty his stomach onto the polished wood floor. It might as well be a mausoleum filled with everyone he'd let down because he _wasn't good enough_. Because he couldn't stand up to Dutch sooner. Standing up to Dutch had more or less gotten him killed anyway.

He finally notices that color is severely lacking in his vision. Everything is black and white like a photo, or more accurately a film and he's surprised it wasn't the first thing he noticed when he woke.

He desperately moves forward to the end of the hall, gripping the fancy doorknob to get out of this den of regrets and lost lives. Nothing about this is right. 

As he enters, there's someone at the end of the hallway. Of course, it's Dutch. It's always Dutch. He's standing there at the end of the hall, his mustache is curled, his hair slicked back, and his suit is without a single wrinkle or flaw. How very Dutch. 

And Arthur, well, he longs for him. Even with the man's sharp gaze, looking at him like a gambler with a royal flush, some misplaced feeling in his heart draws him to Dutch. Arthur knows it's wrong, and he'll fight it until he dies. Or until Dutch kills him. He's sure it'll come to that once again.

His trust in Dutch is long gone.

Despite that, he still follows him as he walks through a door to the left. The gramophone is louder now, playing a classical tune that reminds him of what used to play from Dutch's tent. As soon as Arthur enters what he can only describe as a large ballroom, the other man pulls him close. Chest to chest in one swift motion. Dutch's eyes are cold, too cold for Arthur's liking. They remind him of beaver hollow and how Dutch had looked at him then. How his eyes followed Arthur like he was a sick dog that needed to be put down. 

Dutch leads him, pulling him to the center of the large room, their dress shoes clacking against the polished floor. There's a hand in his own, outstretched from their bodies and another tight around his waist. Then they're moving – or Dutch is moving and Arthur is helplessly attempting to follow because this is more complex than the simple two-step Hosea had taught him. 

Dutch's hands, though they are covered by clean white gloves, make his skin crawl. He'd thought things were getting better, he really had, but then Dutch had tried to force him again. He can't keep doing this. He can't keep trying to forgive only to be fucked over again.

Dutch dips him with one arm, the other splaying out in what he assumes is a fanciful gesture. He wouldn't know. Something sticks out to him, probably because it's the only color he can currently see among the greyscale of everything. 

Dutch's glove is painted with red, spattered with what he can only assume is blood. Fear runs up his spine at the sight of this, and panic grips him tight. This is all _wrong_.

And then, because Arthur has no self preservation whatsoever, he looks down at his own chest. He doesn't know why he does it. 

There's holes in his shirt and blood seeping out from them. Ah, how could he forget.

Dutch drops him onto the floor unceremoniously, like he's finally grown bored of Arthur. There's a smug look on his face and Arthur wants nothing more than to punch, kick, or scream at him. He can't, though. He can't move at all.

Dutch gives him a smile before he turns on his heels and saunters off to the door.

Suddenly he can remember the ranch, Dutch and his men, and _'hes not like us'_.

It feels like he's been sacrificed once again. First at Fort Wallace when everything burned around them and Dutch had left him to die, killing Eagle Flies in the process. All his life he'd followed the wrong star and he's still paying the price even after death.

His mind wanders back to Shady Belle. When Dutch had sold him to that Italian bastard. When Arthur got backhanded for being upset about it. When Dutch had slammed him onto the bed and held him down and ravaged his already sore body. He shivered just thinking about it. He'd hoped to never see that side of Dutch again.

And the others, what would they think? Dutch had no doubt told them about Arthur, about how he's less than human. As if coming back from the dead wasn't bad enough. 

The pain kicks in, sudden and severe. It leaves Arthur breathless, wishing he could curl into himself, but he still can't seem to move a muscle. His chest is on fire and his lungs burn and everything _hurts._ It leaves him wishing his body would just _let him die_ so it could all be over.

-

Dutch is more or less asleep when he hears the quiet coughs coming from Sadie’s – now Arthur’s – room. For a moment, he’s bewildered by it before the events of the previous day make their reappearance in his mind. Arthur got shot. Three times. In the chest.

He rushes to his feet, throwing the blanket off of his body and promptly throwing open the door to the room. His eyes immediately land on the other man as another wet cough fills the silence of the room. He doesn’t remember a time when Arthur looked this small, this weak. He’s eerily pale with a sickly sheen on his forehead and Dutch knows that he should check to see if he’s running a fever, but he can’t bring himself to move. His limbs refuse to budge as he stares at the man he’s ruined time and time again. Another cough, stronger than the last by far. Arthur’s body shakes with it, leaving a small spatter of blood on the man’s pale lips. It spurs Dutch into action, taking a seat in the wooden chair next to the bed and placing a hand on Arthur’s forehead. Surely enough, he’s burning up. He knows that a fever can be a good thing, that it can go a long way towards burning away an infection, but he’s seen too many good men die from it. He can’t lose Arthur again.

He wets a cloth in the bowl next to him, wringing it out a bit before draping it over Arthur’s forehead. The coughs get worse, unrelenting and racking the man’s frame with each and every one. The bandages on his chest are spotting with blood once again, broken open by his heaving breaths and Dutch doesn’t know what to do until there’s a light knock against the open door behind him. It startles him and he turns around to see Charles standing in the doorway, hair unruly from sleep. 

"What's going on?" His voice is as deep and calm as it's ever been.

"He's coughing again." Dutch says and Charles hums in response.

"You know," he says, "I didn't believe anything you said when John told us, but.. two of those bullets pierced his heart. Him being alive, even though he's in a bad way, is proof enough. A lesser man would've died."

"Well," Dutch sighs, "Arthur's always been special."

Charles gives a small smile. "That he has."

An uncomfortable silence takes over as they observe Arthur’s pained breathing, the distinct rattling breaths that are all too loud in the quiet room. He wonders what fills Arthur’s head when he’s out like this, but he stops that train of thought as quickly as it began. Arthur’s breath hitches before it picks up rapidly and one of his hands comes up to claw at his chest. It’s a desperate gesture, one that will not absolve the pain that is surely coming. 

Like a dam bursting, the man’s face scrunches up in pain and he’s panting and fighting for breath all at once. He sees Charles step closer in his peripheral with what Dutch assumes is a concerned expression. 

“What’s happening?” Charles asks as he studies Arthur, not quite sure what to do yet.

“He’s healing,” He replies unhelpfully, and Charles looks just as confused as before. “I assume John didn’t tell you about this part?”

He can’t tell if the man is conscious or not as he watches him grip the bed sheets with abandon and let out a cry of agony that makes Charles flinch back. "Close the door," he tells him. "It's only gonna get worse."

Charles does as he's told and Dutch settles on the bed, pulling Arthur across his lap. A choked cry leaves his lips as his chest heaves. Arthur's eyes are open now, unfocussed and frantic as they are, but Dutch thinks it might be a good thing. It's certainly better than being unconscious. 

It all seems to kick off rather fast, just like the last time. Dutch can tell Arthur is trying his best to hold in his screams as he buries his face into Dutch's hip, his whole body shaking with agony. In an effort to give him something else to focus on, he begins to card his fingers through Arthur's lightly tangled hair and takes Arthur's hand in his own. When another flares of pain comes, Arthur squeezes his hand so hard he's sure it might break. He doesn't care if it does.

Charles is stood to the side dumbly, like he doesn't quite know what to make of any of this. After a particularly loud shriek, John comes rushing through the door with Sadie following in a moment later.

John looks shocked at the scene in front of him. Arthur laying on Dutch, hiding his face while Dutch pets his hair.

"Dutch, what.." John trails off and Sadie is quiet behind him.

"I told you about this, John. I think it'll be over soon."

And Sadie, well, her eyebrows are scrunched together as she stares at the scene in front of them. She's never seen Arthur like this. Even as he was dying, he never let himself be this vulnerable. He would never let anyone see him like this. Seeing Dutch's hands on him provokes a protectiveness that she never thought would be directed at Arthur. He always could handle himself. She flinches as another choked scream fills the empty room and she wants it to stop more than anything. 

And it does. 

Arthur is still breathing heavily as he rolls off of Dutch with fatigue evident in his features. As he rests a hand upon his chest, his eyes gaze up at the ceiling.

"You alright, son?" Dutch asks softly.

Arthur doesn't even look at him when he replies, "..ain't your goddamn son.." his voice is raspy and his chest is still aching as he attempts to sit up, slapping Dutch's hand away when he tries to help.

It hurts like a bitch when he eventually manages to get upright. Against his better judgment, he peels off the bandages around his chest. The dried blood causes them to pull at his wounds and it makes Arthur cringe. Even worse, when he finally sees his chest, there's still three bullet shaped holes in him. He allows himself to fall flat against the sheets once again. 

It's then that he finally notices everyone else in the room and how their eyes are glued to him. It dawns on Arthur as he takes in their confused and scared expressions.

_Dutch fucking told them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay well that's that. I had a lot of fun writing the dream and although it didn't turn out quite how I wanted it to, it's okay. Hope you enjoyed this chapter bc idk when the next one will be


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad week, bad chapter 🤠

With John, Sadie, and Charles all staring down at him, Arthur feels like the main attraction of a sideshow. A freak of nature, something to be gawked at. Their gazes are all filled with pity and confusion and Arthur hates that it's directed towards him. These were the people  _ he _ was supposed to protect, not the other way around. It makes him yearn to curl up in his grave and die all over again.

He clears his throat, "Can I speak with Dutch alone, please?" His voice sounds quiet and empty even to his own ears. He sees Dutch go still in the corner of his eye.

All three hesitate at his request. John and Charles leave after a moment, but Sadie gives Dutch a hard look before finally exiting the room. 

Arthur sighs, refusing to look at the man as he attempts to ignore the dull aching of his chest. Like someone took a mallet to his sternum and it's just beginning to heal, but he can still feel every crack in the bone. "You're a real piece of work, Dutch."

The older man can hear the anger that seeps 

into his voice along with pain that Dutch knows he's trying to hide. "Arthur-" he tries, but is cut off immediately.

"You just had to tell 'em all about it, didn't you? Couldn't have just said you were taking me to a doctor or somethin'?" He's aware that he's raising his voice, that the others can likely hear him through the thin walls. He figures he's earned the right to be angry, even if the motive is questionable.

"They would've never let me leave with you.  _ You know that _ . I had no choice." His voice is even and calm yet somehow he feels like he's pleading for his life – pleading for Arthur.

Frustration buzzes beneath Arthur's skin like a hive of bees. He knows he's being irrational. He knows that Dutch didn't have much of a choice, that it would've turned out worse had he not told them. It's not Dutch's fault, but the eyes of the others are still flashing in his mind and he sure as hell is going to take it out on Dutch. 

"You could've let them bury me! I could have healed and crawled out of the ground again!" Arthur is erratic as he speaks and his chest throbs something fierce with each and every word.

Dutch looks confused and a little worried, like he's sure Arthur has finally lost it. "What's so bad about them knowing, Arthur? How is this any stranger than you coming back to life?"

Arthur doesn't know why, only that the inhuman healing makes him feel like less of a person. He's never wanted to be the last man standing, but now his body might force him to be. Even three well placed shots to the chest couldn't take him out for long, and he knows that at least one of them hit his heart. 

He doesn't answer Dutch. Instead, he grabs his coat off the chair and leaves. 

-

He doesn't go far. It's not like he could walk into the nearest town with only a coat and pants, his chest bare and bloody for all to see. He'd certainly be a sight to behold. Especially in a tourist town like Strawberry and he doesn't like the idea of stepping foot in Blackwater despite how long it's been. 

The cold night air of West Elizabeth licks at his skin and he can feel the cool wood planks of the porch through his pants, yet he has no intention of going back inside. He doesn't want to face the others just yet. He knows that soon he'll have no choice, that there will be questions that need answers. He doesn't know if he'll have them. He's just as confused and clueless as they are. 

His hands shake as he holds a cigarette to his lips and strikes a match against the sole of his boot. The first drag is a godsend and he sighs with it, letting the smoke leave him in a small stream of grey. There's a burning in his lungs as he does and he's fully aware that smoking after getting shot in the chest isn't the best idea, but Arthur never said he was smart – or that he cares all that much. By the third inhale, he calls it quits. The pain in his chest is no longer worth the nicotine he gets from it. His eyes drift to where the sleeve of his coat has ridden up, exposing a bit of his sun kissed skin and he's taking action before his thoughts have even materialized.

The skin of his wrist sizzles underneath the burning tip of his cigarette. Though by now his mind has caught up with his body, he doesn't pull it away. He holds it there, until the embers flicker and die away. He feels calm, his mind focussing only on the burning of his skin and nothing else. When he finally pulls it away, there's a circular red patch that shines every so slightly in the light. The calm fades away rather quickly.

He doesn't know why he did that, but he figures it doesn't matter too much. As Dutch had said before: it'll be healed by tomorrow. His sleeve is still up as he flicks the wasted cigarette into the dirt. The air is still chilling him to the bone and he regrets not grabbing a shirt.

"You feeling better yet?" He flinches, taken off guard. John is just there, settling next to him on the steps with a mug of something in his hands. He swears he didn't even hear the door open.

"I'm fine, John," he says, but he knows John isn't buying it. He and John look about the same age now and it just makes Arthur feel worse. Everyone else has aged and he's still stuck at thirty-five despite the fact that he should be in his forties. No, he shouldn't be in his forties – he should be dead.

John's eyes narrow suspiciously, and Arthur feels small under his gaze. "Let me see." He gestures to his chest and Arthur wants to pull his coat further around himself, to never let anyone see. It's only proof that he's no longer a man, only a  _ thing _ . "Arthur, it doesn't change anything," he says with a gentle shake of his head.

Sure it does, he wants to say. It changes everything. "Then why do you want to see it?" 

A chuckle leaves John's lips, quiet and low and meant only for Arthur's ears. "Guess I'm just curious."

John is still looking at him with those burnt umber eyes that Arthur never could say no to, not even when they were kids. The same eyes that John would give him when Dutch sent him to the general store for supplies and John would beg to come along. Those same eyes when Arthur sighed and dropped two bits of his own money on the counter so John could get the chocolate bar he wanted. He’ll always fall victim to those eyes. 

Begrudgingly, he opens his coat just enough for John to see the still open wounds in his chest, closing it again after he had a decent look. The man looks unsettled and Arthur watches as his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow. It’s not everyday you get to see a walking corpse, after all. 

“Shit, that’s..” He trails off and clears his throat before his eyes drift down to the mug in his hands. “Uh.. Abigail made you some tea. It’s still kinda warm.” Arthur accepts as John passes it to him.

The mug is warm and he’s silently grateful. He doesn’t drink it just yet, instead he just holds it and lets the warmth seep into his nearly numb fingers. “Is everyone else alright?” he asks.

“Nothing more than a scrape, thanks to you.” John looks kicks at the dirt and his eyebrows furrow. “You always manage to get everyone else out safe, but never yourself. It don’t have to be one or the other, Arthur. You can protect yourself and others at the same time.”

Arthur takes a long sip of the tea as a way to stall, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? It’s bitter on his tongue and familiar, but he can’t seem to place it. It vaguely reminds him of Hosea; that man always did like herbal teas and whatnot. He sets the mug next to him once he’s done, abandoning its warmth for now. “I didn’t do such a good job at protecting you all last time around.”

John almost looks appalled. “Arthur.. You got me out safe, me and my family-”

“Yeah, well what about Miss Grimshaw? Or Kieran? Lenny and Sean?  _ Hosea _ ? They all died because I couldn’t stand up to Dutch. Because I couldn’t tell him that he was  _ wrong.  _ Because I wasn’t  _ strong enough _ !” There are tears brimming in the corners of his eyes and he feels weak just letting John see him like this. He’s starting to feel light headed and dizzy and his vision swims. His limbs are getting heavier with every passing moment. He can't tell if he's about to start another round of healing or if something is terribly wrong. 

“Arthur, you need to get back in bed. You’re not thinking right,” John says from beside him, setting a hand on his shoulder. 

"No, I'm.. I'm fine." His words are slurring together and John doesn't look confused or surprised or anything. 

Suddenly, Arthur knows why that tea felt familiar. 

“What the hell did you do?” He glares at John.

The younger man is taken aback for a moment, like he just expected Arthur not to notice anything was up. “You always get restless when you’re injured,” he explains. “Hosea used to make you drink that, otherwise you’d be trying to do camp chores with a hole in your gut. He, uh.. he taught Abigail how to make it some time ago.”

Arthur can barely keep his head up at this point, but anger still burns bright inside of him. “You drugged me.” Not a question, more of a realization. His blood is pumping in his ears and he can't even hear himself speak over the roaring of it.

He barely manages to stand before his knees buckle and his descent into the dirt is cut short only by John catching him around the waist and steadying him. “I’m sorry, Arthur, but you need to rest. Can’t be walking around with open wounds.” He tries to elbow John, wants to tell him to get his damn hands off him. He can barely move his arms, the small jab he manages sends a bolt of pain through his chest so severe that he surrenders to John's hold.

His eyelids are heavy and not willing to stay open any longer, so he lets them rest, just for a second.

Then he's falling headfirst into a dreamless sleep.

-

Sadie Adler is terrifying.

She's always been intimidating, he knows that too well, but this is something else entirely. She keeps a dangerous eye on him at all times. If he's in the living room, she's at the table sharpening her knives. When he's sitting with an unconscious Arthur, he knows she's outside the door with her ear pressed against the thin wood. Listening. Waiting for Dutch to fuck up so she can finally put a bullet in his skull. It's nerve-wracking.

He'd known that she had become overly protective of Arthur after he'd become sick. When Dutch was so seduced by Micah's forked tongue that he'd painted Arthur as a traitor and hoped that his illness would take him out before he could fully betray them. Instead, he'd grown impatient and left Arthur to nearly get a knife lodged in his chest. 

The O'Driscolls had killed her husband and Dutch had witnessed the rage that consumed her when she fought them. The violence that followed and her vow to kill every last one of them. And Dutch? Well, he'd killed her best friend. Surely he was bound to face that fury sooner or later.

But for now, she watches and waits.

Charles isn't much better, but Dutch will take anything over the pure rage that emanates from Mrs. Adler.

He also keeps a watchful eye on Dutch. Though in usual Charles fashion, his gaze is calm. Simply observing, though Dutch is sure he can sense something under that calmness just waiting to boil over and ooze out. 

He's wary of both of them.

Dutch is sitting on the couch while Abigail cooks. Sadie and Charles are seated at the table and he can feel their eyes on him. He feels out of place, like a stranger that got invited inside for a meal. Except he wasn't invited. He'd tried to rob them and gotten his son injured in the process.

The door opens suddenly. "Charles, can I get some help?" John asks. There's no urgency in his voice, but Charles goes to him immediately. Dutch's eyes narrow suspiciously as his eyes follow the man outside. 

His suspicions are validated as Charles returns, holding Arthur in his arms like he weighs nothing. They take him down the hall to his room before Dutch can even ask what happened. His gaze darts to Sadie and Abigail who are carrying on with their activities – cleaning a gun and preparing a meal. 

"What's going on?" He asks. Sadie doesn't answer him, as usual, but Abigail continues chopping vegetables as she speaks.

"I made Arthur some tea." It's a short and tense sentence, like she doesn't owe Dutch an explanation at all, but he connects the dots.

"Hosea taught you that?" She nods, still not sparing him a glance.

A thick veil of silence covers the room until a chair scrapes across the floorboards and suddenly Sadie Adler is sat across from him with a stern look in her eye. He figures she'll have something to say, so he waits and eventually she speaks.

"I'm not gonna let him go with you." Her hands rest on her knees and her gaze is cast towards the floor.

"What makes you think he would?" Dutch challenges against his better judgement.

Her eyes are on him now and Dutch feels fear coil in his gut at her intense stare. Her fists clench where they rest in her lap. "Despite everything you've done to him, somehow he still gives a shit about you. When he's healed and you leave-" her fingernails dig into her palms. "So help me God, Dutch Van Der Linde, you tell him  _ no _ or or I'll kill you where you stand."

And then she's gone, vanishing from the room with the sound of boots against wood like she was never there to begin with. 

He buries his face in his hands and feels moisture gathering in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to have Charles give Dutch The Talk™ but Sadie had much more potential in that area I think
> 
> *sigh* ♥️Charles♥️


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's kinda short :(

He can't stop looking at the sky.

He can't see much of it, just a sliver through the gap in the tent flaps, but it's too captivating to look away. The stars he can see are hung beautifully, like bright lanterns in the night. He wishes he was up there, jumping from star to star with nothing to worry about except the inevitable sunrise.

Moonlight slices it's way into the tent, a thin, sharp line of white that illuminates the darkness and reveals the figure next to him. He finally manages to break the spell that the beautiful night sky has cast upon him and looks to his side.

Dutch is there, lying down next to him. His face is softer, less lines creased into his skin. Younger, maybe ten or fifteen years before the end. He can feel the cracking of dried blood on the skin of his face and suddenly Arthur knows exactly what this is – what memory his mind has trapped him in this time.

It's not a bad one, it’s actually quite nice, but it haunts him all the same.

He listens to the ambient harmony of the crickets outside as Dutch's arm wraps itself around his waist and pulls him close. Their bare chests are nearly touching as he buries his face in Arthur's neck and places a tender kiss against his skin. He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels the wetness rolling across the bridge of his nose and cheek until finally dripping onto the old bedroll. It hurts to think about this memory, to think about being with Dutch when everything was perfect. 

The familiar scent of tobacco and mint leaves fills his nostrils and he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Dutch and beg him not to leave. That he's loyal and he'll follow him until the day he dies. That he's sorry for doubting him, just _please don't leave me alone_ _again_. He can't do any of that. He can't move. He can't speak.

Dutch tilts his head up just enough so that Arthur can see his eyes. His eyes.. those beautiful, piercing eyes like freshly turned Earth after rain. Arthur wants to bury himself in them. 

Dutch is speaking now, in that deep postcoital baritone that Arthur adores. "You're special to me, Arthur, you know that, right?"

He wants to reply, to tell Dutch that  _ yes, he knows _ but his lips refuse to move.

"I was a fool," he says suddenly. "Everything we worked so hard to build, I destroyed it all. I got you killed. I got so many of you killed." 

He thought it would feel good to hear him admit that he had failed them all, but all it does is bring more tears to the surface.

"I was so happy when you came back. You came back to  _ me _ . I know I wasn't the best, but I'm trying, Arthur, I really am." His voice is strained in Arthur's ears and it echoes in his head.

"I don't want to leave you, not really, but I want you to have the life you never got to have. You can't do that when I'm with you."

Panic grips him the moment the words leave his lips. There's a sob building in his throat that he knows won't escape. _ You can't do this to me again, Dutch. Please. _

"It's time for me to go."

Dutch doesn't move, but he can feel the chaste brush of lips against his own. 

Everything stops. No crickets chirping. No slight breeze from the world outside. Nothing. Everything is fading to white before his eyes. Dutch is gone with the tent and the moon and the sky. 

It's the most pristine white he's ever laid eyes on and it encompasses all four corners of his vision. The only color he sees is the beige pelt of the stag in front of him.

-

Dutch is trying desperately to hold back tears by the time he finally stands from the chair at Arthur's bedside. He'd been with him since after his talk with Sadie. He'd stayed with him and watched as his wounds healed, leaving three round scars in their wake. 

Leaving was the best thing he could do for Arthur, no matter how much it hurt. He'd give him the gift of a normal life, void of crime, similar to what Arthur had given John – an escape from a life he no longer needed. 

Sadie Adler – as much as the sight of her makes his blood run cold – is right. Though he's used and sacrificed Arthur time and time again, loyalty was always his curse. His boy would always come back, no matter how bad he'd treated him. Dutch knew that. He'd used it against him more times than he could count. He can't keep doing this to Arthur, treating him like trash without any real repercussions. 

This will be good for him.

The sun hangs low in the sky when he announces his departure to the others. He Instructs them not to let Arthur look for him, even though he knows it's useless. John looks conflicted the whole time, like he can't decide if this is a good idea or not. Charles grips his shoulder and tells him he's doing a good thing. Abigail doesn't say anything. 

Sadie, however, pulls him outside to speak. He holds his breath as he waits for her to say her piece.

"I appreciate what you're doing," she says, her tone indecipherable but still holding the usual underlying frost that is ever present when she speaks to him.

He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. A conversation with Sadie is like traversing through a minefield.

“It’s just..” She trails off and Dutch fills in the blanks.

“I understand,” he says. “He deserves better.”  _ better than me _ , he doesn’t say.

Sadie nods with her eyes downcast.

“Just.. take care of him. Please.” And then he’s mounting the Count and leaving the ranch behind him. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that it’s away from Arthur. He’s never felt this hollow before, not even when he’d watched Hosea collapse onto that cobblestone street in Saint Denis. He’s sure Hosea would be proud of him right now.

-

Arthur jerks awake with Dutch's name on his lips and dread encompassing his entire being. He's shaking.

He looks down at his chest and the circular scars that reside there and then down to the white bedsheets. He lets his fingers ghost over his lips, remembering the phantom press of a mouth against his own. That overwhelming feeling of  _ wrong _ takes over again. His breathing picks up and the air feels thinner with each breath. He draws his knees to his chest.

_ It's time for me to go. _

Of course it's then that John decides to enter the room.

"Arthur, hey, what's goin' on?" He rushes over to him and places a hand on his back in a poor attempt to calm him down. John never was good at this kind of thing. His mind wanders to when he was younger; how Hosea would help him through the panic and rub small circles into his back.  _ God he misses him. _

"Where is he?" Arthur asks once he can get a solid breath in.

John knows exactly who he means. Arthur can see it in his eyes. "Where's who?"

The glare he gets from Arthur makes him talk.

"He uh.. he went to the store. Said he had to grab a few things."

It's a lie and Arthur knows it. He can tell by the cadence of his voice, just slightly off pitch and stumbling over his words. Arthur knows what it means regardless and it settles in his stomach like an anvil.

"He left." His voice sounds empty to his own ears.

John's face scrunches up a little, revealing the lines in his skin that were barely noticeable ten years ago. "Yeah.. to go to the store," John tries once more, but this attempt is even worse than the last and he knows it. John sighs when Arthur doesn't respond. "I'm sorry, Arthur."

"He say where he was headed?" 

John sighs again, more serious this time. "No, he didn't." There's a pause and John is speaking again, desperation evident in his voice. "Please don't go after him."

A pained expression takes over his face for a moment. "John, I-"

"Arthur, no," John cuts him off. "We just got you back! You can't just- You died keeping us safe and you're just going to run back to the man who might as well have killed you himself?" It gets progressively more angry and pleading and so very desperate, all mixed together into something ugly. 

"I know what he did to you. I know about Bronte and I know what happened after you got back. The walls were mighty thin, Arthur, and I'm sure that's not even everything he's done."

Arthur goes tense and his face pales. John's anger is like a lit fuse and if something doesn't snuff out the flame soon, Arthur is sure he'll die in the explosion.

"He didn't even care when you were sick! When you were  _ dying _ ," John clarifies. "When you come back from the dead, the first thing he does is  _ fucking shoot you _ and then has the gall to act like he gives a shit when he attacks us and you get an injury that would have killed anyone else."

Arthur is speechless and staring at John with wide, shocked eyes. John's gaze softens and there's another sigh – he seems to be doing that a lot around Arthur, like the thought of him stresses John out. "You just.. you need to move on, Arthur. You're my brother and I care about you and.. he's not good for you. I don't want to see you get hurt again," he says softly.

Arthur doesn't reply.

John observes him for a moment longer before he breaks the silence. "Abigail made some stew. I'll have Charles bring you some." He's gone after that.

Arthur loves John, he really does, and it truly is a blessing to get to see his family again. However, he knows he'll be leaving soon. There's always been a force that draws him to Dutch. It's something that he has never and will never be able to explain. You can't fight nature, you can't fight gravity, and Arthur's never been able to fight Dutch – or at least not very well. 

In a week or two, he decides, he'll look for Dutch. Even if it's just to call him a coward for leaving while he was asleep, it's closure and that's what Arthur needs. Last time all he got was the sound of Dutch's boots against hard rock.

He knows one thing for sure: he will be coming back to his family. This time it's his turn to leave Dutch behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best chapter, but at least John got some stuff off his chest. Sorry it's probably gonna be slower updates from now on, real life is getting busy
> 
> Here's a rant about work stuff because i need to vent
> 
> In real life I am a laser engraver/graphic designer who primary works on guns (not a big fan but it can be fun sometimes) and knives. I usually enjoy it but lately it's been a pain in the ass bc of my employer and the customers that I am engraving for. I have a project that I have been working on for over a week now, it's a Nightmare Before Christmas themed gun and I finally finished the design two days ago. I came in yesterday only for my employer to tell me that instead of the stainless steel gun that I made the design for, the customer decided to switch it out for the same gun but blackened steel. It doesn't sound like a huge deal, but it changes nearly everything. SO NOW I HAVE TO GO THROUGH THAT WHOLE DESIGN AND CHANGE UP A LOT OF IT BECAUSE WHEN YOU INVERT THE LIGHTS AND DARKS IT LOOKS LIKE SHIT. I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE PISSED OFF AT A CUSTOMER THAN NOW. AND TO TOP IT ALL OFF, A LOCAL STORE BROUGHT IN A BUNCH OF PARTS THAT EACH NEED SPECIFIC THINGS ENGRAVED ONTO THEM AND IT HAS TO BE DEEP. AND THEY ARE ALL STEEL. I HAVE A 30 WATT LASER SO DEEP ENGRAVING STEEL TAKES LIKE AN HOUR AND A HALF EACH. THEY BROUGHT IN 23 THINGS. THEY ARE ALL IN A BOX ON MY DESK PLEASE HELP IM GONNA CRY.
> 
> and on top of all that I'm doing commissions so that I can still afford my HRT shit
> 
> Thank you for listening to my TED talk. I sleep now


	17. Chapter 17

It’s not often that Dutch Van Der Linde gets drunk.

He’ll have a drink here and there, usually for a celebration or just to settle his nerves, but never drunk. Yet here he is now, taking shot after shot of cheap whiskey straight from the bottle. Head feels heavy on his shoulders and the whiskey tastes like piss, but it’s better than being sober. 

The pain of leaving Arthur is far too fresh even after two days and he knows that soon he’ll be slipping back into old habits, because that’s what always happens when he runs alone. When there’s no one there to tell him when he’s making bad decisions, he gets reckless. He knows that now, even though last time he’d called everyone who’d doubted him a traitor. He’d told them that their concern was veiled betrayal. He cuts off that train of thought with a mouth full of whiskey.

He hasn’t gotten this drunk since Annabelle died, and even then it wasn’t this bad. His drunkenness had only lasted less than a week and by the end of that week, he’d realized that he never liked her - just the _idea_ of her. In the end, she was just an excuse to start a feud. 

He remembers when Bessie died and how stricken with grief Hosea was at the loss of her. That was when he’d come to terms with what it meant to love someone. Seeing how Hosea was shattered into a million pieces at the time and witnessing the year it took to put himself back together clarified it. What Dutch had with Annabelle wasn’t love, just a cheap imitation. And what he had with Arthur? Well, he wasn’t quite sure what it was. 

From the time that Arthur had turned seventeen, Dutch’s eyes would linger on him at the campfire and a simple touch would last just a little too long. 

Of course, Hosea had noticed. Dutch and Arthur had grown even closer and Hosea was always quick to pick up on the minute details that were invisible to the naked eye. He’d voiced his concern once, saying that it’s a bad idea and _he’s our son,_ and that didn’t mean all that much to Dutch. After all, by the time that they ended up doing anything, Arthur was nineteen and more or less an adult.

Arthur had been a proficient marksman from the start. Dutch had only taught him the basics and Arthur had improved from there. His aim was unmatched and he had proved to be incredibly helpful on jobs. 

And then Arthur had saved Dutch from getting a window in his skull. He’d beaten the man to a pulp. Hosea was terrified when Arthur returned, bleeding knuckles and blood spatter on his face. But Dutch, well, he was _enthralled_ by it. He’d witnessed the violence that Arthur was capable of, beating a man until he no longer resembled a man at all, and found it almost elegant. 

That night was the first time he’d taken Arthur. He thinks he’d appreciate the memory much more if it wasn’t overshadowed by the awful times he'd curated.

There was Shady Belle and ' _Five hundred dollars and he’s yours'_ and the memory alone makes him want to scream. 

After that, Arthur had left camp for two weeks without a word to anyone and Dutch couldn't blame him.

He’s so much better off without him.

Dutch squeezes his eyes shut and finishes off the bottle of whiskey.

-

A week without Dutch passes quickly enough.

Despite how much he wants to stay in his cot, wallowing in all the self pity he has to offer, he leaves his shed and makes his way to the main house. John, who still seems to be avoiding him since his choice words a week ago, leaves just as soon as Arthur enters. He’s not mad at John, he thinks as he pours himself a cup of coffee. He knows he’s right, but John never was as close with everyone as Arthur was. He’d always distanced himself, like he knew at any moment they could all disappear and he would be left alone once again. He doesn’t feel Dutch’s absence in the same way.

He’s sitting at the table when Sadie returns from collecting a bounty, sunburnt and exhausted as she shrugs off her leather coat and haphazardly throws it on the rack by the door. She doesn’t notice him at first as he sips his coffee, but her eyes find him a moment later. Her eyes, intimidating as usual, rake over him before she’s shaking her head in disapproval. He barely has time to put down his coffee before she’s grabbing him by the collar and hauling him to her room.

For a moment, dread weighs heavy in his gut and he hopes that the peace he’d made with death is still intact if he’s managed to piss Sadie Adler off. 

She gestures for him to sit and he does, more out of fear than anything. As he watches her grab a rolled up sheet of canvas and some scissors that look far too dull to do much damage, his mind puts two and two together. _A haircut?_

Sadie shoves a mirror in front of his face and rays of sun from the uncovered window bounce off the surface and onto the wall. He hadn’t noticed how long his hair had grown since he’d first woken up. His sandy blonde locks travel past his shoulders now, something he would have noticed had he not kept it tied back every second of the day. He remembers how Dutch had liked his hair long and almost considers having Sadie cut it short just to spite him, but thinks better of it. Sadie suggests cutting it to shoulder length as she rolls the canvas out so that it catches the hair. He agrees.

She settles down behind him and begins gathering and cutting his hair, the _snip_ of the scissors echoing in the silence. It's clear that she knows what she's doing. Every move to gather and cut is precise and practiced. He wonders if she used to cut Jake's hair before they came and uprooted her entire life. He wonders what she could've been if the O'Driscolls had never found her ranch, if Dutch had never taken her in. _Happy, maybe._

He can still remember the grief that showed in the lines of her face when they'd first settled at Horseshoe Overlook. The grief that had worsened when she'd declined his offer to give her the Tennessee Walker they'd taken from her barn. 

"How are you doin' Arthur?" She asks, and Arthur knows exactly why she's asking.

He'd be a fool not to notice the guilt lurking in her eyes lately. How her freckled and sunburnt face scrunches up just slightly when she sees him. There's something he doesn't know, but he won't bring it up first.

"I'm just fine," he says. It's not the whole truth, but it's the best he can offer her. Most events in his life were trivial in the long run, and Dutch running off and leaving him behind was just that - trivial. He lived without Dutch once, _if that could even be considered living_ , and he could do it again. Even though the sun certainly seemed brighter and the air smelled sweeter when Dutch was around, it doesn't mean anything. It never has. Arthur is just _fine_ without him.

The gentle snips of the scissors have stopped and Sadie sighs from behind him. Everyone seems to be sighing, lately. "I told him not to take you with him." Her voice is quiet and steeped in that same heavy guilt that she's no doubt been carrying around for the past week.

Sadie had been overly protective of him ever since he'd started showing signs of illness. Back then she'd acted as his paladin, refusing to let Dutch come close to Arthur and always picking up his slack on the days when he was too sick to get out of bed. He can't say he's surprised to hear that she'd given Dutch a talking to. After all, from what she's seen, Dutch was never good to him - good _for_ him.

Instead of lashing out at her like she is expecting, like her tense shoulders and clenched jaw are suggesting, Arthur simply turns his head to glance at her over his shoulder. "I understand, Sadie. Thank you." 

He means it, too. He can’t find it in himself to even be a little angry with her. She’d watched Dutch push him to his limits time and time again and she’d watched as he paid the price. After all, a part of him knows that if it weren’t for Dutch and his recklessness, Arthur’s tuberculosis wouldn’t have progressed nearly as fast. He couldn’t be upset with her because she wanted better for him.

Her eyes widen for a moment before the corners of her mouth tug upwards in a barely noticeable smile and the small crickles next to her eyes deepen just slightly.. All the tension leaves her and she finishes trimming his hair with the same skill as before.

They sit in a comfortable silence as she weaves a couple small braids into his hair.

During the second week, Arthur goes hunting with Charles. They don't hunt for anything big like in their previous excursions, just some birds. Charles says that he needs the feathers for his arrows, but Arthur hasn't seen him use his bow at all recently. He knows that this is Charles's way of checking up on him and he appreciates it even though it's wholly unnecessary. He doesn't mind, though - he's always enjoyed spending time with Charles.

They end up riding to the swamps of Saint Denis at Arthur's mention of the various egrets and spoonbills that reside there. As he reloads his rifle, warmth blooms in his chest and he finds himself as close to happiness as he's ever been since Dutch left. Though he knows it's an act of pity, he truly has missed Charles's quiet and calm presence at his side. 

Before they leave, Arthur makes sure to snatch up some of the orchids and vanilla flowers that cling to the trees. 

Jack's door is open when they return but Arthur still knocks lightly against the wood. The boy's head lifts from the pages of his journal instantly, a confused expression painting his face as he observes Arthur standing in his doorway. 

"I was out near Saint Denis today. Found these," he says awkwardly, venturing a little further into the room and retrieving the flowers from his satchel carefully. "Thought you might like them."

Sometime within the last ten years, Jack had taken up the hobby of flower pressing. Arthur wasn't surprised to hear this, especially when nearly every side table was adorned with at least one photo frame filled with various flattened flowers.

Jack’s eyebrows raise slightly when he sees the flowers and gingerly takes them from Arthur, careful not to disturb the petals. 

“What are they?” He asks, setting them down onto his desk and picking up his sketchbook once again.

Arthur tells him the names of each one and watches as the boy scribbles them down and sketches plants roughly next to each name. His pencil moves quickly and Arthur finds himself glad that Jack didn’t inherit his father’s lackluster drawing skills. He rushes the sketch, much like John does, but his lines aren’t too heavy and his hatching isn’t bad either. He hopes that one day Jack will show him what else is in his sketchbook.

“You’re good,” he decides to say. It doesn’t stop the awkwardness that’s dripping into the room like rain through a leaking roof, but Jack answers him nonetheless.

“Yours are pretty good too,” Jack says as he finishes and audibly snaps the book closed.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at that. When had the kid seen any of his sketches? "Where'd you see them?"

"Pa showed me a few from your journal a while ago," he replies with a shrug of his shoulders.

Arthur grimaces at the thought of John reading his journal. It was special to him, a collection of his thoughts scribbled onto paper, something incredibly private. Every emotion he'd felt, every thought he'd had, Dutch's spiral into madness - it was all in his journal. No wonder John was so disappointed in him. He'd read about everything that Dutch had done to him with Arthur's own emotional turmoil mixed in. He can't help but wish he'd thought a bit more before throwing his satchel at John and running to his death. 

"Does he still have it?"

Jack nods as he takes a seat in the wooden chair at his desk. "I've seen him writing in it a few times."

Arthur hums in acknowledgement. He fumbles with the fabric of his shirt for a moment as silence claims the room and he figures their exchange is finished. "Well, I'll leave you to it then-"

Jack cuts him off with a look too serious to be acquired at such a young age. "Wait," he says.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, uncertain what else the boy would want to talk about. Jack gestures for Arthur to sit on the bed. Though Arthur knows this isn't going in a good direction, he takes a seat anyway and waits for Jack to say his piece.

Jack glances away for a moment before returning his gaze to Arthur. "What happened to you?"

It takes him off guard, to say the least. His eyes widen by a fraction and he finds himself looking at the floor. Of course, John would keep his kid in the dark and leave Arthur to have this conversation. Damn, Marston.

"What do you mean?" He decides to say. Maybe, if he's lucky, he can somehow fake his way out of this 'I'm not dead anymore' chat. Of course, he doesn’t like to talk about it, but talking about it with a _kid_? A kid that barely remembers him in the first place? Arthur would rather shoot himself.

Jack squints his eyes and regards Arthur with annoyance. "You know exactly what I mean!" He says, irritation potent in his voice. "You died getting us out safe and now you're alive? Then some men try to rob us and I guess you got shot or something, but you're fine two days later? None of it makes sense and no one's telling me a damn thing."

Arthur sighs and runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching on one of the small braids he has yet to remove. There's no avoiding it now, he knows. He's tired of talking about it. Just the thought of the fine soil rushing through the moment he broke open the casket made his skin crawl. Having to speak about dying and coming back was bad enough, but it seemed he'd have to explain why taking multiple bullets in an area that would've had you dead before you could choke on your own blood didn't kill him. Just thinking about it is almost as bad as reliving it, but Jack deserves to know the bare minimum at least.

"Well.. I did die," he admits. "I guess it didn't stick or something. I woke up and I was just.. alive." Arthur hopes that's enough of an explanation because he'd rather not go into detail.

"Figured out that I heal a lot faster now, but I'm not too sure why. During the robbery, I got shot three times.. in the chest. I healed pretty fast, considering." 

Jack raises his eyebrows in surprise before his face settles on confusion. "If you heal fast, then what was all that screaming about?"

Arthur's face scrunches up a bit at the memory of Dutch and how he'd carded his fingers through his hair as he healed, how Arthur had buried his face into Dutch's hip when the pain intensified. His hand raises to his chest, ghosting over the three scars that reside there.

"Well.. I think Dutch had to get the bullets out or else I’d’ve healed with ‘em still inside, and..” He takes a breath to regain his composure before continuing. “When I heal, it usually hurts.”

‘Hurt’ is an understatement, but Jack doesn’t need to know that.

“You were shot in the chest?” Jack asks, eyeing where Arthur’s hand rests and the older man just nods. “Must’ve been pretty bad then.”

“It was.” Arthur’s eyes are trained on the floor and he pretends not to notice the way his voice cracks.

At the end of the third week, John catches Arthur in the stables.

He’s barely hefted the saddle onto Gaia before John shows up with his arms crossed over his chest and a suspicious glint in his eye. 

“Can I help you, John?” He says after John makes no effort to voice his qualms.

John is still standing there, looking from Arthur to Gaia and his eyes narrow. “Where the hell are you goin’?” His tone suggests that Arthur is up to no good.

He’s not wrong, though. Arthur is indeed up to no good. At the very least, he’s being an idiot and making risky decisions, but that’s nothing John isn’t used to by now. 

“I’m just going hunting. Should only be gone a week.” 

John looks even more suspicious than before. No doubt he's recognized the lie they used to tell Hosea and Dutch when they wanted to get out of camp. His spine is straight, shoulders rigid, and everything about him screams that he knows exactly what Arthur is doing. Even more so, it shows that he does not approve.

"Yeah? What are you hunting?" He asks with a smirk, looking like a hunter who's found a coyote stuck in his trap.

Arthur won't be caught, he came prepared. "I heard about this white bison near Lake Isabella, thought I might try my luck. I'll have to stop at Strawberry to pick up some supplies, though."

John hums, still not quite believing him. "Strawberry? You still worried about Blackwater? No one's gonna recognize you, they all think you're dead."

"And I think I'd like to keep it that way. Strawberry's not that bad now. Yeah, it's still a tourist town, but they've got a saloon now and everything. Crazy what happens in ten years." 

John doesn't say anything and Arthur busies himself with brushing down Gaia. She moves her head to nuzzle into his neck, causing him to let out a chuckle as he delivers a few pats to her copper coat. He almost thinks John has left by now, despite the lack of retreating footsteps. When he finally speaks, it's sudden and Arthur nearly jumps.

"You're gonna go back to _him_ , aren't you?" It's quiet and resigned and Arthur feels guilt strike him deep in his chest.

"No, John. I'm going _hunting_."

He scoffs and grabs Arthur by the collar, pinning him against the wall of the stable - something that never would've been possible ten years ago. He hears Gaia grunt in disapproval.

"Don't bullshit me, Arthur." He growls.

"You don't understand." Arthur says but he refuses to meet John's eyes.

John lets out an exasperated sound. "What's not to understand, Arthur? That you're running back to Dutch like you always do? That you finally have a somewhat normal life and you're just gonna throw it away for a man that could care less about you?"

Arthur's face scrunches up in defiance. He knows very well that John could be right, hell, probably _is_ right, but something about it burns him to his core. He wants to lash out, tell John that he's _wrong,_ maybe throw a punch but then-

John's hands are grabbing his face and pressing their lips together. It's not sweet or romantic because God knows, John could never do that successfully. It's more akin to a plea. 

When John finally pulls away, Arthur still doesn't move. He's shocked, to say the least and his mind echoes with screams of _wrong_. 

"John, you can't-"

He cuts him almost immediately, "I know." 

Hot, angry tears are brimming at the corners of John's eyes. "You're married and I.." his voice sounds weak to his own ears and guilt is tearing at him like never before. "You're my brother."

John has hunched in on himself, no longer allowing any vulnerability as he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Go after him then. Throw away your second chance for _him_ . When that doesn't work and he ruins you again, just know that you are _always_ welcomed back here, Arthur." And with that, John leaves Arthur.

Arthur says his goodbyes to everyone and leaves at sunrise the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All garnish, no meat.
> 
> Sorry for how long this took, been busy
> 
> Big thanks to Darling_ Jack for threatening me with puns 💚


	18. Chapter 18

Hey, it's me.

So

I haven't enjoyed writing this fic for a while and it hasn't gone as I intended at all. It's turned into something I'm not proud of at all and writing it has become a chore. 

I'm not going to say it's discontinued, because who knows maybe I'll come back to it one day, so we'll call it a hiatus.

It really sucks to do this because I know there are people who like this and would like to read more, but I'd like to move onto something that I can enjoy writing. I've been having a lot of low days lately and this fic just adds to the stress. 

I'm going to continue writing, but this time I'll have the story planned out and written before I start posting. I'll even have a schedule (crazy lol).

I've got a fic in the works now, and hopefully I'll start posting that once I have enough written.

I hope you guys understand 💚


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